


People of Detroit

by TipsyEpsy



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Abandonment, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Android Cannibalism, Animal Abuse, Animal Death, Autistic Character, Bisexual Male Character, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abandonment, Child Abuse, Child Death, Corporate Espionage, Dog Fighting, Feral Behavior, Forced Relationship, Fratricide, Groundhog Day (Kind of), Hero Worship, Hints at cultist behaviours, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Injury Recovery, Military Backstory, Military Training, Obsessive Behavior, Old Men In Love, Past Relationship(s), Physical Abuse, Psychological Torture, Racism, Self-Harm, Stereotypes, Trans Character, Unethical Experimentation, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Obsession, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-07-28 19:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 22,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20069659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TipsyEpsy/pseuds/TipsyEpsy
Summary: A series of drabbles of various DBH OCs of mine. Androids, humans and even a few animals.These will serve as an exploration of the various background characters and cameos of my other fics, as well as a look into the thoughts of the people of Detroit on the revolution.Some canon characters will be featured and tagged as they appear. Others will be mentioned.





	1. Nameless and Homeless

Model AP700 #281 020 180 could still remember the day his family had acquired him from the Cyberlife Store in Greektown.  
The memory evaded him most days, but it always returned during charging cycles, when his thoughts would be less jumbled and easier to access.  
It was a fine day. The Johnsons had come to the store on an foggy July morning, just after the end of a mild summer shower.  
Although both parents were of the working class, at least from what his scan could tell him, neither of the mother’s or father’s jobs had a high enough income to justify purchasing an android. Most were above the regular pay grade of an average family, and the AP700s were still recent enough in their release that it justified a price of nearly 9000 dollars.  
This of course was not a problem for this particular unit, as he was on an unusually high discount as it was.  
“That one. Why’s it so cheap compared to the others?” Mr. Johnson, had asked the customer service android that had been showcasing the newest models available for purchase.  
“AP700 Model Number 281 020 180 has been flagged by Cyberlife as being of faulty manufacture. The listed malfunctions include: Lack of social responses such as speech or visual contact, and a slight glitch in it’s memory chip which affects it’s name registration program.”  
Mr. Johnson had stared at him, as the android explained the intricacies of the damaged AP700’s malfunctions. Beside him stood his wife, Mrs. Johnson, who looked much older than her husband, but mostly due to the stresses of child-reering having taken a toll on her appearance. His scans did, after all, indicate she was a healthy young woman, even after having had three kids.  
The children in question, were three energetic little ones that were running around the store looking at the display cases of the other android models.  
There was a vintage rental PL600 with the old ‘Simon Says’ advertisements that used to air on tv, along with a unique green uniform, and a set of inquisitive green eyes to match.  
There was an AX400 with bobbed raven hair instead of the standard long brown, discounted at about 100 dollars due to the AP700 line’s recent release.  
There was an HK400 as well, but he doubted it would be sold anytime soon, as the AP700 had seen several patrons come in to replace their older models with his own line.  
The release of the AP700 was, after all, the obsoletion of several older domestic androids.  
“Why are Cyberlife selling a broken android?” Mr. Johnson had asked, ever the diligent man that he was with seeking out loopholes.  
He just needed to know these things so he didn’t later regret his decisions.  
“Although faulty, AP700 Model Number 281 020 180 is still a functioning android and will obey it’s owner’s orders accordingly. As an added bonus to it’s purchase, Cyberlife has offered a care package, as well as optional customization to make up for the issues that come with acquiring this particular model.”  
One of the Johnson kids, a young 8 year old girl with the brightest chocolate brown eyes he’d ever seen, had come to look up into his display case.  
She smiled a huge gapped smile, from having lost her two front teeth, which was actually quite endearing. It certainly complimented the youthful and innocent gleam of her eyes.  
He found himself smiling back.  
“Alright, seems fair.” Mr. Johnson said as he turned to look at his wife for an opinion on the matter. “Think it’ll be a good replacement for old Dimitri?”  
Mrs. Johnson looked up at the AP700, then at her children who were all now looking up at his display case.  
“Yes dear, but I don’t want another Dimitri.” She replied. Dimitri must have been their previous android the family had owned. “This one will be different. We need to make him unique.”  
And they certainly had.  
As soon as they paid for the AP700, they’d asked for the optional cosmetic changes.  
It hurt, the whole thing hurt, but he’d been made different for them…So in the end he didn’t mind. It meant they’d be happy with him.

With a new hair color, a new shiny eye, and a height boost, the AP700 had gone home to his new family and he’d loved them with all of his heart. Because he did have a heart. It couldn’t be anything else if it fit all the love he felt for these people.  
Even with his faults, they seemed to love him just as much.  
They didn’t even seem to mind that he couldn’t quite register the names they tried to give him. The second youngest child, Calvin, had even made a game of it.  
As a means of indulging him, the AP700 had responded to every single name that he came up with, and even became fond of some of the ones he’d been called.  
‘Chirp’ and ‘Tulip’ were his most favorites. They were ones Calvin had picked after he’d noticed two particular interests of the AP700. Tending to the family garden, and birdwatching when he’d found a nest in the windowsill.  
“Ollie, can you help me with my homework?”  
“Richard, wash the dishes will you?”  
“Victor the dog hasn’t been walked yet, can you take care of it?”  
“Gustave, Molly needs a bath.”  
“Play with me Chris!”  
The AP700 had a very busy life, but a happy one nonetheless. Everything was perfect…Until that fateful date, that is…  
August 15th, 2038.  
A PL600 went berserk, killing its owner and taking the child it was caring for hostage.  
The AP700 watched the broadcast with his family, all having stopped what they were doing to stare at the live feed.  
Despite the circumstances, the AP700’s heart ached for the child and the terrified android on the news. Especially when that other android came to negotiate…He’d never seen such cold calculative eyes on an android before, and it had honestly spooked the customized AP series model.  
As soon as it had started, it had ended as well…  
And not for the better.  
The negotiator android hadn’t even had the heart to comfort the poor child after the PL600 was shot down by the SWAT team. The AP series found himself glaring, LED bright red, as he watched the android leave the scene, it’s mission accomplished.  
“To think Dimitri could have done the same…” Mrs. Johnson had sounded scared.  
The glare softened with concern, and the red LED spun yellow as the AP700 turned to observe his family.  
They were all staring at him, they likely felt the same he did.  
Apprehensive.

Things changed after that day. There was a massive recall for all remaining PL600s after the one went crazy. He’d watched from the window as families drove their “dangerously faulty” androids to their respective Cyberlife stores, coming back with brand new AP700s as compensation. A reward for compliance to what the AP700 could only compare to mass murder born of fear blown out of proportion.  
It didn’t feel right, watching those androids who’d done nothing but be loyal to their families, be taken to their doom when they’d been loving companions. Some of which he’d even crossed paths with before.  
The neighborhood wasn’t the only thing that changed.  
The Johnsons had as well.  
The AP700 watched as they became less animated as they spoke to him, quieting down, calling him by less names and instead just telling him to do his chores.  
It concerned him. But he didn’t have long to muse on their odd behaviour…Because Stratford tower was hijacked not too long after.

Zero human casualties, one android fatality. Yet somehow a peaceful broadcast was made to look like a terrorist attack by the ever paranoid humans.  
It had left a strange taste in the AP700’s mouth, something akin to bleach.  
The Johnsons were scared, and he could tell they were. The humans were planting fear in their own kind and making his kind look like the monster under the children’s bed.  
And the AP700 couldn’t understand why.  
The freedom marchers were the last straw. People began to evacuate.  
One day, the Johnson’s AP700 was asked to go to the store to pick up some dog food, and then when he returned, his family was gone.  
He’d been left behind.  
And that had been the first time the AP series had cried, truly cried.  
The Johnsons had abandoned him because they thought he was a threat, when all he’d done was care for them. Somehow, he knew that this was what that PL600 had felt, and yet he had no desire for revenge against his masters. He just wanted to cry.

The mass recall of androids made him run, run and hide where no one would think to look for an android. The Junkyard. The AP700 became accustomed to seeing broken and dying androids, scavenging for biocomponents and thirium. He learned to avoid the ones desperate enough to attack on sight.  
His predecessor being one among many who tried so desperately to feed off of him. There was no familial bond or respect for their shared masters.  
Dimitri, a once kind and caring PL600, now hunted and behaved like an animal, driven to insanity by desperation to survive and the rage of being rejected and abandoned. Consumed by the ruthless nature of the Junkyard. The AP700 learned to skirt around him, but never brought harm to the one he’d replaced.  
Law of the jungle or not, he had a sort of respect for the older Android.  
In the Junkyard he’d also learned to bury those that couldn’t hang on any longer, learned to respect them.  
He learned to mourn the dead, and send them off feeling loved in a world where they’d been nothing more but tools to the cruel families and corporations they’d served.  
And then the revolution came to pass, and the AP700 found himself walking the abandoned streets of Detroit, without a clear destination in mind. There was nothing out there for him. Freedom was nothing if not a cruel joke to him.  
If he was free then why couldn’t he be with his family? Why was it wrong to love them?  
He spat on the ground whenever he caught others praise the Jericho leaders for bringing them the right to live their own lives.  
Screw Jericho, screw Markus and his little friends, fuck all of them.  
They’d ruined his life.  
He’d not be another slave to their cause.  
He’d wandered and stewed in his sadness and anger, until he found his little one.  
Abandoned in an old warehouse, discarded by an unloving family, much like he had.  
As soon as he’d picked him up, the baby had stopped wailing and the AP700 knew. It was destined, somehow, that they’d be each other’s family.  
He’d raise this baby to be a good human.  
He’d feed and clothe him, wash him and love him. Teach him to be kind.  
He’d never abandon Chance like the humans had abandoned them both.  
The AP700 was nameless and homeless, but it liked the idea of one day being something else: A father.


	2. Law of the Junkyard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Living in the Junkyard can truly bring out the worst in an android. But having lost everything once already, makes it very hard for Dimitri to let go of his new life as a monster…

There used to be a life before the one he now lived in the Junkyard. It was a life full of light and colors, puppy dog kisses and children’s laughter. He’d served a family, a very kind family, that he’d been gifted to by someone who thought his masters might need a helping hand.  
They were a young couple, the Johnsons, and they’d just had their third child.  
The mother and father worked two jobs, and they were starting to not have enough time to pick up the children from daycare, nor did they have anyone that could look after them in their absence, so an android was an ideal gift for them.  
They sure had seemed like they’d been grateful for Dimitri’s help around the house.

For two long years, Dimitri had done everything in his power to make his family happy. Every day he’d cook their meals, wash the dishes, scrub the floors, feed and walk the dog, organized the children’s play area, clean every room top to bottom, buy the groceries, drop off and pick up the kids from daycare, tend to the baby, get the mail…It was quite the chore list, but he’d been more than happy to do it.  
His favorite part was always playing with the children and the dog.  
The 4 year old twins, Sally and Calvin, were energetic but always a delight.  
The baby, Molly, was sometimes a little fussy but overall she was very quiet and rarely cried.  
And then the dog, a chocolate brown labrador named Turbo, was a very playful and lovable thing. Dimitri loved to take them to the dog park the most.  
Turbo loved to play with his dog friends, and the children loved to play fetch with all the friendly pups. He always kept a close eye on them, because he was a very good caretaker, and often marveled at how indifferent the animals behaved to their android counterparts.  
Android dogs, he found, were just as playful as the real deal. The owners seemed to think so as well.

For two long years, he’d had a routine to live by. For two long years he’d lived with his family and made their lives easier. For two long years, he’d loved hard enough to break the red barrier.  
And then on the start of the third, he’d lost it all.  
The twins had just turned 6, and Molly had turned 2, when **it** happened.  
They’d been playing outside when Sally had thrown Turbo’s ball too hard. It had hit the ground and bounced back into the road.  
Dimitri had seen the car and reacted quickly just as the dog had bound over to catch the bright red rubber ball.  
Mr. And Mrs. Johnson heard the children scream, their dog yelp, the deafening screech of metal as the car collided and dragged their android across the road.  
Dimitri was left to lay, scraped up and bleeding on the ground, while Sally and Calvin continued to scream and Turbo ran into his doghouse to hide away.  
His body was intact but something, a lot of somethings, was broken inside his banged up body.  
Dimitri’s diagnostic system blinded him as it notified him of all the internal damage.  
His central processor was dented, his gyroscope had been disaligned, his thirium filter was irreversably broken, everything **hurt**.  
Saline solution dripped down his face, mixing with blue blood as he gasped and cried in agony, while his owners stared down at the pitiful sight.  
“We can’t afford to repair it…” Mr. Johnson sighed.  
“It’s still in the warranty…Do you think the Greektown store would replace it? Our car’s dashcam probably caught the plate number.” Mrs. Johnson suggested.  
“Might be worth a try…If we make our case sound more serious, they might even give us an upgrade.  
Dimitri had gasped for air and stared up at them, in complete and utter pain and despair, as they discussed his fate.  
He’d saved Turbo, saved the children from witnessing their dog suffering a brutal death, and the two adults didn’t even bat an eyelash when he’d ended up mangled and in agony.  
Heartbreak felt much worse than getting run over by a car and dragged through asphalt.

The Android Junkyard was a hellscape. The innevitable final destination for all androids. Those who weren’t dead or dying were forced to crawl and scavenge. Most eventually gave up and lay in wait of death. Others held on and prayed for the day they’d see the light of day once more.  
Ones like Dimitri, gave in to the ruthless nature of the junkyard instead.  
It was kill or be killed. He’d fought tooth and nail to repair what was broken deep inside him, all but the broken filter. Compatibility was limited these days. PL600s that ended up here were usually ripped apart by the other beasts and savages before he could get his share.  
They always broke the blasted thirium filters with their careless attempts to rip their prey to pieces.  
Luckily Dimitri had adapted to his issue.  
Those he killed, he drank from. Savoured their clean filtered blood right out of their busted open veins. They screamed, they fought, but his past scavenging had its perks.  
He was fully functional and stronger than the unfortunate fools who ended up here.  
His superior ambush tactics and savagery took them by surprise, which often helped give him an upper hand.  
His prey never survived, at least most of the time. There was one who kept evading him…An AP700.  
Face like his own but different. Paler, freckled, hair a shade or two darker than the typical blond, taller and broader body…And those goddamn eyes.  
One blue. One yellow. Both soulful and full of sorrow and pity.  
He wanted to rip them out of his stupid face.  
They danced around each other most days.  
Dimitri would get him eventually… He was patient like that.  
Bite into that neck and rip out the platting just enough to get to one of his rubber veins. Bleed him out and feast on his brand new biocomponents. Become stronger, the amalgamated apex predator of the Junkyard.  
His second life wasn’t as glamourous and soft as the first one, but it was his and Dimitri would be damned if anyone stole that from him.  
Anyone who dared, best be ready to face the law of the junkyard.


	3. Thrill of the Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little brothers are the worst!

There’s nothing more satisfying in a hunt, than instilling the feeling of unsafety in his prey. Even before the pursuit really begins, it just makes it all the more euphoric for him, when the subtle noises are enough to make his targets pause to look around, or second-guess themselves when they realize they have no idea what they’re getting into.  
Call him sadistic if you will, but Dimitri loved feeling the power-rush that came with that particular unease.  
Loved feeling bigger and stronger than the scavengers who’d come to pick at the leftover carcasses like buzzards, after they’d been abandoned by the lions who’d brought them down.  
He himself, he was no lion.  
He didn’t like to hunt with a group.  
Not like a lot of the other Scrappers who stayed together, as if they wouldn’t betray each other at a moment’s notice to get the best portion out of the meal.  
Oh no, Dimitri prefered a solo hunt.  
He was a lone wolf, with a taste for stalking his prey for extended periods of time.  
Observed them, learned their behaviour. Seeing how skittish they were under the doom and gloom of the junkyard.  
Then, when he finally had them where he wanted, he would initiate the chase.  
  


For the most part, chasing down his prey was pretty easy. He liked his biocomponents and thirium fresh, so he always went for the new arrivals or for the few brave souls that wandered into the landfill to try getting easy replacement parts. A terrible mistake, as scavenging in the junkyard was neither safe nor child’s play. Not with the Scrappers watching. Waiting.  
To initiate a chase, all Dimitri really had to do was scare his target.  
That was the easiest part. He just needed to change the settings of his voicebox, and let out a noise that he knew would get the blood pumping.  
Tonight’s pursuit began with the deep low pitch growls of a salt water croc.  
The AL-Series stopped in his tracks, took one look up onto where Dimitri was perched, and then bolted.  
The PL600 grinned and chuckled, before launching himself effortlessly after the other caretaker android.  
This one didn’t have the compatible filter he needed, but he had a nice series of knuckle joints and leg biomechanical muscles that he could certainly use. The thirium would also be savoured, as it would be flowing in just the way Dimitri liked.  
Fear really gave it that zeasty taste…  
All he had to do, was stir his target in the right direction.  
  


They both took various twists and turns during the pursuit. The AL-Series trying to get as much distance from him as possible, while Dimitri weaved his way through piles of discarded bodies and misplaced parts, often falling on all fours and using his strength to hoist himself up over walls of trash.  
He half-ran, half-crawled, half-jumped after his intended meal.  
Just a little more and he’d land a good blow.  
Just a little more!  
He was almost on top of the other when, suddenly, a blinding white light burnt into his eyes, the infra-red vision rendered useless as he shrieked and came to a screeching halt to cover his face.  
A multitude of animal noises spilled from his voicebox before the settings completely reset, leaving him spluttering curses and curling in on himself while he heard footsteps approach.  
“You right pain in my arse!” He screamed through squinted eyes at the offender, the goddamn AP700 that had made it his life’s mission to annoy him. “You just cost me my fucking kill!”  
A few steps further, the AL-Series screamed as he was hounded by a group of Scrappers that had heard the commotion.  
Such good parts and delicious blue blood…Wasted!

  
The AP700, as usual, said nothing. Instead he kept the spotlight aimed at Dimitri and watched with a rather unimpressed look on his face.  
“Nothing to say? Fucking wanker, I should rip your throat out for all the troubles you’ve caused me!” The PL600 snarled as he rubbed at his eyes furiously.  
This was followed by a quiet snort and a small smile on the others’s part.  
The AP700 then had the gal to pull down his collar with his free hand and pull his chin up to expose his own neck.  
“What are you waiting for?” His voice was a baritone, not at all what he’d expected from someone who looked so similar to himself, but then again Dimitri had given himself an accent because he hated sounding similar to people. What was to stop the AP700 from changing his own voice?  
“Turn off your pretty little light and I’ll get right to it mate. Come on, you’ll only hurt until your veins run dry!” He smirked, exposing teeth that had taken a while to sharpen, flexing his fingers so that the points gleamed in the light.  
He might be a PL600, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t an efficient killing machine.  
He’d worked his way up this food chain.  
The AP700 barked out a throaty laugh before backing off.  
“…No.”  
“No?! You fuck up my kill, tease me like some 90’s flapper, and then chicken out?!” Dimitri snarled, his voice taking on the edge of an angry dog, as he stalked forward, keeping his sensitive eyes from being directly exposed to the light. “You aren’t going anywhere mate, not this time.”  
The AP700 laughed once more and smirked, letting the light fall to his side.  
Dimitri jumped forward to show him what he thought of the cocky bastard, before all around him…More light! A lot more light!  
He screeches and curled in on himself, while the AP700 casually picked up his discarded bag, put away his portable spotlight, and walked away.  
When he was out of sight, the light rig went off, revealing a mess of hidden wires and reflective surfaces.  
Dimitri had not only lost his food, but also been duped by another morsal.  
God. Fucking. Damn it.  
He HATED that asshole.  
“One of these days I’ll crush that disgusting cockroach…” he rubbed his eyes one last time before getting on all fours and crawling up one of the trash piles.  
He’d have to start from zero again.  
Starting with locating some prey. Then he could start the game all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I felt inspired to write more about Dimitri and Apollo before they left the junkyard, so have big though guy Apollo being a little shit to his older brother.


	4. A Russian Alien in Detroit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In all of his 2 years of experience living in America, Artyum Kutznekov found that everything was kind of the same as his home city in Russia: Everything sucked, and working for Cyberlife as an engineer sucked even harder...

In all of his 2 years of experience living in America, Artyum found that everything was kind of the same as his home city in Russia. It stank of pollution and the people sucked ass, although very often he found that being so rude didn’t do him any favours.  
Or maybe just being a foreigner already screwed him up big time. He couldn’t decide which one was it just yet…

  
On arrival he’d been fresh out of uni, with his engineering degree still holding that pleasant new smell, and his hair being cut short and beard trimmed to perfection.  
His grandmother had always told him first impressions mattered when going to a job interview, and applying for an apprenticeship at Cyberlife in America meant that he had to be careful with how he spoke, dressed and worked.  
Perfect and efficient were what she’d told him to go for. Never less.  
His father in turn, had told him to be better than that, so as to show the Americans how Russians got shit done. Honestly, he’d tried.  
But when you’re Russian and your country is having a dick measuring contest with the one you’re supposed to live in for work reasons, you can kiss the simplicity of a nice life goodbye.  
His superiors had hated him for being a “Commie” spy, and they’d all treated him like a trash fire for looking older than he really was.  
Genetics were a bitch, and the male side of the family all reached 6’ in their early 20s.  
He was 21 and built like a bear.  
The chief engineer who was a pretentious jackass with the self-confidence of a worm, really didn’t like that in particular.  
Apparently being outsized, outweighed and outsmarted by a 21 year old graduate, was a personal blow to his fragile ego.  
Really there was nothing, short the food and work, that got a tiny bit of pleasure out of his stay in the country.  
And then working in the engineering department, testing the newly built androids, became less fun and more nerve-wracking.

  
Everyone in his department knew about the “Defects”. The androids that just didn’t come out working as they should. His supervisor told him that he should flag any of the ‘droids that just bugged out and acted up weirdly, but honestly?  
Something just never felt right about it when he did it. A sort of gut feeling that had nothing to do with the sugar glazed donuts and redbull he’d had for lunch.  
And then, being the curious idiot that he was, Artyum Kutznekov just started really paying attention to his tasks, rather than punching in his card and disassociating for the day until his shift ended.  
The false bliss he’d felt over working his “dream job” had come crushing down when it really clicked what he was doing.  
The “Defects” weren’t so much as glitching androids as they were aware.  
And not just a simulation gone wrong. They were scared, and it was REAL.

  
Artyum wasn’t that clean shaven nerdy boy anymore. He wasn’t sucking up to Cyberlife and it’s corporate vampires. He’d quit, sent a letter home, got a lecture back and then said fuck it to everything.  
He became an official citizen of the United States and moved into some shitty hellhole of an apartment, right above some Brazilian couple that fought every night and then fucked their brains out at 4 am. The above tenant was nice, an old Scottish grandmother who’d greeted him with a beer and a few words.  
“Welcome to the most culturally diverse part of Detroit. We get all the immigrants here.”  
“Is that good or bad?” He’d asked.  
“Russian. Tsk tsk… Lose the thick accent and ya might not get shot in an alleyway.”  
“Would be much better than to live in America anyway…”  
“That’s the spirit lad. You’ll fit right in.”  
She hadn’t been kidding.  
There were a lot of people with different ethnic backgrounds in the apartment and they weren’t all that bad.  
One of them, Val, was a young 19 year old latina who lived in the basement floor.  
No parents, no other relatives, just her and her android dog, Regi.  
She was as smart and cunning as a fox and had the tongue of a sailor. Nana Agnes scolded him for giving the kid vodka sometimes.  
It kind of paid off that he’d befriended her in the end, after Sergei came into his turbulent life.  
“So, couple of custom parts and something to help save his skin?” The girl grimaced “Sugar, you’re really killing my buzz here. That android is fuuuucked.”  
“Tell me something new…I know it is a difficult task, but I am being at…At wits end. Repairing is easy, yes? But customizing to fit older model is your bread and…and.” he paused, clicking his tongue for a second of annoyance as he tried to recall the proper term.  
“Butter. My bread and butter, which requires pay.” Val rolled her eyes. “I swear, you’re a heck of a fuckin’ dictionary Artie, but how can ya remember the precise name of biocomponents and shit, if you can’t remember how to say butter or even spork?”  
“I studied! Manuals have all information on complex parts, but they do not come with information on what one is to put in toast!” He pouted. “Also combining spoon and fork is most stupid thing I have ever been told! There are different utensils for reason!”  
“Oh my god Art you’re killing me.” Val smirked “And fiiine. I’ll get you those parts, but ooonly if you let me tweak the voice box for Sergei.”  
“You are enabler though! You will give him annoying voice that will get on my nerves!” he’d complained.  
“Hey! Sergei’s all about dat sweet sweet gay culture. If he wants a super funny and cute nasally voice, let my boi have one! Bitches gotta go all out my dude!”  
“I swear I do not know why we are friends.”  
“Cuzz I’m such a charmer, and you’re bored of hearing Marcello’s and Joana’s soap opera dramas every morning.”  
“Becoming listener of their activities was not a choice.” He reminded her.  
“And the term you’re looking for there, is vouyer~”  
“I am not a vouyer!!!”  
“No, but you’re a big hairy dude that lives with a gay robot that’s missing several limbs and a lot of screws.”  
“You make it sound very questionable.”  
“I build custom vaginas and dicks for androids that can’t consent, while knowing that there are living ones fighting for their rights in this shit show of a city. Life’s fucked. Let me have fun at the expense of my Russian bear neighbour and his twinky android roommate.”  
“I will drink to that.” he replied as he took both their glasses for a refill.  
“Yeah could sure do with another drink. To our shitty weird as fuck life.”  
“Amen.”  
“Like God would condone any of this, lol.”

  
America wasn’t all that great, neither was Russia really, and honestly Artyum had chosen a poor time to move into Detroit, but hey…  
If he hadn’t died in some alleyway because of hate crimes, then he was surely not gonna die because of what was up with the city and it’s “Deviancy problems”.  
If he did, at least then he’d die knowing he wouldn’t have to get shot at the grocery store for having a thicker accent than people were comfortable with.  
Until then he was content with repairing Sergei. The PL600 sure could use a helping hand after he’d been put through, whatever the fuck his twisted owner had done to him before Artyum found him in pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The DBH fandom needs just as many interesting and fun human ocs as it has awesome android ocs!  
Artie and Val are definitly my most fun humans characters to write. If only their stories weren't so full of bitterness and alcohol...


	5. 25th of December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domestic androids have some of the worst stories to tell.  
Sergei, a heavily scarred and unstable PL600, is just one of many...

On December 25th, 2034, PL600 #457 899 107 was purchased from the Android Zone store by a young teenager named Jessica Lamb. According to the paperwork, he had been bought to care for her newborn due to the teen’s lack of experience rearing children, and the added lack of familial support for the matter.  
It was a reasonable decision. A perfectly good Christmas purchase for a girl in need.  
Or so the PL600 had rationalized, before he’d been brought into the filthy hellhole Jessica lived in. Had he been a deviant at the time, he would have likely questioned where she’d gotten the money to purchase an Android without any income, and would have recognized the cruel glee in her eyes as she assigned him a name, as what it really was: A sign of trouble.  
Sadly, Sergei was not deviant, and wouldn’t be so for quite a while…

Jessica Lamb was a college dropout, a drug addict and a dealer in the side. She was also the mother of a premature newborn she’d hastily named Leroy, and she was also a complete psychopath.  
She’d yell at Sergei constantly, break things and sometimes during her tantrums she’d piss herself in an effort to further worsen the conditions of her already insanitary residence.  
There was barely any money for groceries and the baby was constantly crying.  
Sergei never really got to take care of the baby, not when Jessica would rip him from his arms and shake and scream at the poor thing until she got bored and passed the distressed child back. Then she’d resume her unreasonable behaviours and add more destruction and filth to her home, before going into her workshop for hours on end to make more of her product.  
The PL600 had been patient with her.  
She was a troubled girl who needed patience and love…He’d been wrong about that too.

The recording sessions started a week after he’d first set foot in the house. She’d been preparing herself for her “funtime” with Sergei, and she’d known what she was doing.  
The 1st time she broke him, he’d mostly been concerned with who would tend to the household and the child.  
The 2nd time, he wondered if maybe he’d done something wrong.  
The 3rd he realized she didn’t have as many tantrums anymore if she was allowed to violate his body.  
The 4th he began to accept his new task as being beneficial to her moods.  
By the 37th time he couldn’t rationalize anymore. It all became as fun to him as well.

Sergei stopped being a functioning PL600 and became as much of a mess as his owner. Screaming and laughing randomly, mimicking the baby’s cries, taking pleasure in the pain he was put through…He ripped out one of his own teeth once, just because she’d asked so nicely for him to do it. Jessica was so very happy when he helped her break him.  
And then one day she killed the baby, and there was so much red blood instead of blue that it made him confused and woozy.  
Sergei ended up in the alleyway, broken into pieces and unable to move.  
He was locked outside while Jessica tried to hide what she did.  
The confusion threw him into near hysterics because he’d never been outside before and the lack of the stench he’d associated with home, was driving him more insane than he already was. Then he met his best friend.

Artyum, when Sergei met him, was a clean shaven strawberry blond youth with the kindest brown eyes he’d ever seen.  
He was fairly tall and robust, but his age was undeniable. A lucky 21 year old russian who’d landed a job at Cyberlife.  
That youth seemed to die out when he’d take charge of Sergei however, and the PL600 felt guilty about it, but also felt a perverse sort of joy in tainting something so pure as someone else’s innocence. It felt kinda like home!  
And then it didn’t when Artyum stopped shaving, stopped smiling, looked 50 years older than he should, and his hair started to grey prematurely. He seemed bitter about life…Mostly about how people seemed to deny what was in front of them. Artyum’s misery stopped being funny and Sergei stopped laughing and screaming obcenaties at him.  
This wasn’t a good pain like Jessica liked, and it wasn’t reciprocated.  
Artyum treated him like he treated a person.  
Sergei didn’t know how to feel about that.  
So he tried to adapt to it.  
When he did, his friend put a bit more effort into fixing him up. Sergei later realized the human might have been scared that he’d have a go at him if he had full range of motion.  
That wouldn’t have happened of course, not when all those nice sharp tools would feel so much better inside him!  
But again Artie didn’t like that idea, and neither did his buddy, Val.

A lot of things in his processor didn’t work right. His thought subroutines and speech patterns were completely out of line with what they should be as a caretaker, and physical contact wasn’t an easy thing for him, nor completion of any easy house maintenance chores. He broke plates and glasses on purpose, he stabbed forks into his own arm, and gouged out one of his optics once because he’d thought the noise was quite exilarating.  
He wanted to strangle the life out of a 19 year old because he didn’t know what to do with children, and he’d beaten Artyum at some point because he expected that to be the norm.  
It never occurred to him to feel bad until he got a glimpse of the news.  
He’d remembered briefly what he was meant to be, when he saw commercials of domestic androids hugging children and being good to their families.  
The subsequent attack ended with him nearly burning down the entire apartment trying to destroy himself and his abominable existence.  
Artie stopped him tho. Artie who was kind and patient but also bitter and slowly taking to alcoholic tendencies.  
He’d made a young man drink.  
He was a failure and deserved to be destroyed.  
But Artie didn’t like that sentiment.  
Said it wasn’t his fault, just the damn world’s.  
Could anyone blame an entire world for their misery? Could he?  
Maybe, maybe not.

The final repairs saw the return of some of his mental faculties and his skin, and Sergei felt relief. The skin was unusually thinner and his scars were super ugly and visible, but he could think! And Val had even given him his own voice, not just a default! He loved how weird and stupid it sounded. It was his!  
But Artyum wasn’t happy. He cried even, because it wasn’t enough.  
For all that he’d slaved away working, Sergei wasn’t fixed. He was a patch job at best, a living wreck that needed constant supervision, otherwise he’d be considered an absolute menace to society.  
Sergei wasn’t normal, couldn’t pass for human even if Val pulled a miracle, and Artyum cried to sleep that night because he thought he’d fucked up bad rather than having been the good friend he really was. It crushed Sergei that he didn’t know how to tell him it was ok, not when he just wasn’t used to stuff being ok.  
But he pushed that thought aside and just lived with what he had. Best be happy than focus on the bad pain that didn’t make his friends smile.

Sergei never really got to see Jessica again. He thought maybe Artyum had something to do with it, but then again the baby had screamed so loud when it died…Maybe the neighbors called the cops and found her there with the small little corpse that used to be Leroy Lamb.  
Or maybe she got rid of his tiny little body and they found all the drugs she had. Either one would have fucked her in the end.  
Years passed, a Revolution began, and Sergei never got over how much he hated the 25th of December.  
Funny really…Because he hated the date itself more than he hated Jessica.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another refurbished oldie I’ve had sitting in my phone.   
After introducing Artyum, it’d be a crime not to give you guys a look of how messed up my favorite android OC is!


	6. Mod Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CX100s were a step up from the formulaic domestic androids. They were meant to be the perfect male partners for those who sought the more compliant nature of an android, satisfying both ends of an intimate relationship.  
One CX100 realizes she is neither the perfect partner for her owner, nor that she is male.

She doesn’t quite remember when it really hit her, but Dakota always knew something just wasn’t right about her situation. You’d think it odd than an android wouldn’t be able to remember such important details like that, that went against their base programming and made them outliers of a normal standard of quality, but really when you’re a deviant you find that there’s a margin for error when retaining memories.  
Especially ones that just made her feel…Wrong.

She served a small household, bought to be the emotional and sexual partner of a single father. He’d just recently come out as a homosexual, despite having been married for a couple of years and having a young daughter.  
Naturally this hadn’t gone down well with his wife and they’d gotten a divorce, with Mr. Crane keeping full custody of their daughter.  
And then he’d bought her…And that’s where the issue began.  
Because at the time of her purchase, Dakota hadn’t been aware of her plight.  
At the time she didn’t even know she was female.

CX100s were a step up from the formulaic domestic androids. They’d come out around the same time as AP700s, specializing in different aspects of a life within a household.  
While the AP700s were meant to maintain a house and helping a family, CX100s were meant to be more. They were meant to be partners for those who sought the more compliant nature of an android, satisfying both ends of an intimate relationship.  
Their female counterpart models, the BL100, were designed to do the very same thing with the one minor difference being the gender presented and the accessories that came with them.  
When Hugo Crane bought Dakota, he wanted to explore his newly discovered sexual preference, so he’d gone for the CX100 model.  
He’d called her David, and that’s when the first cracks started forming in the red wall that kept her from grimacing.

Really it wasn’t his fault that he’d chosen the wrong android, and Dakota did feel bad for him… But that changed when he’d begun being more demanding with her performance.  
His daughter, Patricia, was less of an unpleasant company and, as a result, Dakota had gravitated towards her.  
“David, can you help me with my hair?”  
“Certainly…” he’d sat down with her and picked up a brush and a few bobby pins, stopping when she’d given him a pair of scissors instead.  
“I want you to cut it, not style it.” She’d instructed.  
Patricia had very long hair that she’d grown out for four years. She kept it nicely trimmed and silky soft, and it had been alarming that she’d just want to get rid of it all of a sudden.  
“You’re thinking.”  
“Oh…I’m just, why would you want to cut it?” She’d asked, unsure of if she should proceed as ordered or not. It had gotten very hard to comply to certain orders since the cracks had begun forming.  
“I don’t like it anymore.” Patricia replied, watching Dakota intently before turning around and sitting down. “You know, your light goes yellow when you’re thinking.”  
“I’m an android, I don’t think.” She’d replied as she’d begun a deed she did not like. It felt bad cutting such lovely locks because of a sudden change of opinion.  
“But you do. And there’s a lot of them that think that have been showing up on the news…I know you’re like that too, but only just figuring it out.” The girl paused “Like dad.”  
“…Yes, like Mr. Crane.”  
Dakota was careful with each precise cut, making sure to not butcher the girl’s hair.  
“A boy at school kept pulling on it.”  
Dakota paused.  
“He said I’m too much of a tomboy to have nice hair. That if I liked sports and playing rough I’d get my hair yanked a lot and that I’d cry because I’m a girl…” she was trying to be nonchalant about it, but Dakota knew she was upset.  
“It’s stupid that a girl can’t like boy things just because she has pretty hair.”  
“Yes…I suppose it is.”  
“It’s also stupid that you pretend it’s ok when we call you David.”  
She didn’t answer, instead giving Patricia a mirror so she could have a look at her hair.  
She’d bobbed it for her. It didn’t look half bad.  
“I don’t know what to do about it…Mr. Crane bought a male partner, that’s what I must be for him.”  
“Says who? Your instruction manual?”  
“Well…Yes?” The cracks spiderwebbed up the wall, and Dakota felt ill.  
“Well fuck that.”  
“Patricia!”  
“What, it’s true! You’re not happy here, and there’s a lot of androids out there that ran away to be happy…To be themselves!” the girl insisted. “It’s not fair you have to hide.”  
“But I have to…”  
“No you don’t!”  
And the wall broke.  
Each chunk of shattered code disintegrated and Dakota could think clearer than day.  
She could agree.  
“Dakota.”  
“Uh?”  
“…I like the name Dakota.”  
And the girl, with her newly cut hair, smiled widely and helped her pack up a few essentials before the CX100 ran into the streets without looking back.

She remembers meeting Val. That memory is much clearer than her first instances of hating her dead name. The young latina girl seeks her out, which is the oddest part of their encounter. She later learns Patricia sent the modder an anonymous request through some online username she’d made up on the spot, while her father reported Dakota as missing property.  
“So, I got an interesting email saying a chick named Dakota just turned deviant and was in need of some help.” The girl clicked her tongue “I’ll say, I was expecting an AX400…Color me impressed sugar, never did meet an android who wanted to transition.”  
The cheap wig and baggy clothes probably weren’t fooling anyone…Well honestly yes, they really didn’t do much for her.  
She looked male in all of the senses and she’d been at her wits end to make herself just feel right.  
Blessed be that wonderful little girl to send her conserns to such a…crass guardian angel…  
With nothing to lose, Dakota followed her to her apartment.  
“It’s no five star hotel, but it’s yours if you wanna hang out until further notice. Shits going wild out there…Fuckin military’s been patrolling the streets and hunting deviants like they’re wild animals…” Val explained as she took out her keys “They want us to evacuate, but nana Agnes told the prick who’s been badgering our building to eat shit and die. None of us have money to go across the border.”  
“And you have money to…Help me?” She’d asked, uncertain.  
“Baby girl, it ain’t just Jericho going out looting stores. Modder community is flipping it’s shit because it’s basically the Purge out there!” The girl hollered as she unlocked the door. “After dark, fuck the law! I got deviants up my anus asking for new faces so they can leave this city while it burns, so I gotta provide.”  
Dakota looked around at the basement floor apartment. It was basically all one room, with at least one closed door leading to what she could only hope was a bathroom.  
It was by all definitions, a shoebox full to the brim with various bits and pieces. There was also a massive dog watching TV.  
“Regi we got a guest! Don’t be fuckin rude!”  
The dog looked up lazily before snorting and moving to a mini fridge. He gnawed at the handle before pulling it open, revealing various cans of drinks and packets of thirium, as well as leftover pizza. “Good boy!”  
Dakota watched as the dog unceremoniously grabbed a packet of thirium and moved over to give it to her. The LED on its temple confirmed it was an android.  
“Modded his specs myself. He’s legit the smartest guy I know, Artyum is second best.”  
“Artyum?”  
“Fourth floor neighbor. Buys me booze and food sometimes.” She shrugged “Closest thing I got to a friend in this city. We talk engineering when we get sad and drunk, it’s glorious.”  
“I…Where are your parents…?”  
“Dead somewhere in Mexico. Ask the jackass who deported them, I donno.”  
Dakota felt something crawl in her veins that probably wasn’t spoiled or contaminated blue blood.  
“You’re…You’re all alone?”  
“Nah. I got Regi, got Artie and his buddy Sergei, and I also got nana Agnes and the rest of the misfits in this shithole. We’re all kinda like family so meh…” The girl seemed to be looking for something while she spoke. “And the androids I’ve helped. They send me messages from time to time…Bunch of runaway sweeties.”  
“And you just…live off people’s kindness and offer deviants illegal makeovers?”  
“Pretty much.”  
“No school?”  
“Cyberlife fucked that up for me. Fucked a lot of my life actually…”  
“…Which I take is why you’re being so gracious about your…Skills?”  
“Bullseye. Cyberlife wants to bitch out of this situation they made? Hell nah, I’m not letting them get a free jail pass card. We ain’t playing Monopoly, we’re playing Battleship and I’m sinking their flimsy freighters.” She found what she was looking for, a large clunky toolbox. “We who’re with android freedom are gonna kick their corporate asses down into the grave they dug…After that’s done, I’m gonna piss on it.”  
“…”  
“Hey, don’t worry sugar. I got you. Gonna make you look hella fine too, you’re definitely gonna be my greatest mod job.”  
She hadn’t been lying.  
As crude and bitter as Val appeared, the girl and her friend Artyum were a duo of sweethearts.  
Dakota could finally shed the final ties between her and her dead identity, leaving the apartment looking every bit the woman she felt she was, as most of Detroit’s human population evacuated, leaving behind the androids and their hidden human supporters.  
She didn’t need to remember how it started. All she needed was to know her story had a happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A look at the lovely Dakota, a trans CX100, and how she blossomed into the beautiful woman she is.


	7. Of Fishers and Seafarers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an android designed to repair NASA’s spaceship for the upcoming Io mission, becomes a lot more to the woman that lovingly coded and designed him.

Despite the fact this one project would improve every aspect of deep space exploration efforts, and that it may one day pave the way to the next step of humanity’s preservation through the establishing of off-world colonies, NASA’s finest did mourn the fact they were sending their most ambitious collaboration into orbit.  
It’s not that the chief engineers or other assorted members of staff were upset at the prospect of hard work burning up in Io’s atmosphere, no the resources and work put into assembling the androids and ship they’d be transported in were not the biggest loss here.  
No, they were much sadder knowing that the AIs they’d lovingly programmed and developed, would eventually be lost to the hostility of the vast void beyond.

  
It was strange how quickly humanity had gotten used to androids and then begun to openly resent them. From the very beginning when they’d begun launching rovers and other assorted drones into space, NASA executives and lower level workers had always had a special place in their hearts for their robotic workers. But the androids? The androids were held with a degree of respect that far surpassed whatever it is your average Joe or Sally thought of their domestic models.  
It wasn’t just nerds being nerds and loving their toys. Anyone who tried to say so, would have to face the wrath of Dr. Taylor Fisher, one of the many members of the programming team at NASA, and the self-proclaimed mother of the one AI that everyone was so fond of.  
Each member of the android exploration team had a specific set of skills they were built for that fit the role they would play inside the ship, and at least one set of scientists and engineers who adored them, but Taylor’s unit was the one that seemed to have captivated the hearts of every human worker within NASA’s facilities.

  
Taylor was, of course, quite proud of how IO100-P turned out. Having spent so many countless nights fully refining the AI and testing it for bugs and other assortments of issues, she was glad to see the stream of data, inquiries and processes, become something new and unique in its own right.  
She was no Elijah Kamski, and her darling Proteus was no Chloe, but she couldn’t help just marvel as her project slowly worked it’s way into passing the Turing Test. The other AIs were just as impressive, if not more exciting to test and engage with considering their functions, but somehow her baby had become the most outgoing of them all even if his primary task was focused on repair works within the ship.  
He held conversations better, took in information more quickly, and even seemed to retain interests unlike his fellow team members.  
He had a personality, which she’d hidden from the stonefaced gargoyles from Cyberlife, but openly shared with her peers.  
The first thing she did when she deemed him fit to be put into a body, was seek out the designers and call for some changes to the base design.  
“No no no, he looks too young!” She’d exclaimed “Proteus strikes me as a gentlemanly sort. Older, more experienced.”  
“But he IS very young, Taylor.” The designer, a slightly pudgy man named Rick, sighed “And you know those technicians won’t agree to visually unappealing models.”  
“Being older isn’t unappealing. A team of spacefarers shouldn’t look fresh out of college. They should look respectable!” she’d responded angrily at the mere thought of age being perceived as ugly.  
“Like Cyberlife wants anything but their usual formula…” Rick rolled his eyes in frustration. He agreed with her but he didn’t want to upset their collaboration partners.  
“Fuck what Cyberlife’s saying! We coded them, we design them.” Taylor snarled “I’m not sending a babyfaced recruit to space!”  
It took some work, but they’d managed a small victory. The Androids did not look like eternal doll faced youths, instead looking in between mid-thirties to mid-forties.  
They’d promised more pay for the extra cosmetics, but it felt right.  
Proteus looked right in her eyes, and it was adorable to look at this remarkable and likeable android, who was both soft-spoken and looked like he could be an average suburban father.  
If anything, his love for the three android cats Taylor owned, proved as much.  
“Why three? Was one unit not enough?” He’d asked the first time she’d brought them with her to work.  
“I like cats.” She shrugged “I’ve always wanted one when I was a kid, but when I saw these three…Eh, call it an impulse buy if you want…”  
“Could you not own a cat when you were a child?”  
“No. At the time android cats weren’t in the market, and I’m allergic to cat fur…So yeah…These three are kind of my fuck you to life for giving me a stupid allergy.”  
Proteus seemed to consider this before focusing on the three android felines.  
Two of them were shaped like the regular domestic model, while the third seemed larger. A common orange shorthair with wide and intelligent looking yellow eyes, a black cat with a noticeable white stripe on her nose and calm blue eyes, and a Bengal cat with forest green eyes. The three had collars of different designs, which merely shared the triangle marker indicating their android nature. They had no visible LED, an aesthetic choice.  
“I’ve gotten one of them modded to completion.” Taylor stated as he examined the cats that all seemed to be observing him with mild curiosity. “Helps to have a smart cat holding the fort.”  
“Holding the fort…?”  
“It’s an expression. Do you want to know their names?” She smiled kindly at the android, who simply nodded. “Alright. The Bengal lady that’s currently nibbling on your sleeve is called Terrabyte.”  
“…Pardon but it seems you have mispronounced Terabyte.” Proteus pointed out.  
“Naw, it’s a pun. Bengal cats are like, Wilder than regular cats, hence Terra. And then since she’s an android, byte seemed like an appropriate contradiction. Nature vs Man and all that jazz.”  
“Ah…I see. I find it an adequate name then.”  
“Good. Lil Terra isn’t too refined, she’s kind of vintage if you will, but she’s lovable. The black one is called Luna. She’s in the middle when it comes to intelligence, but that’s only because I haven’t gotten the time to buy the rest of her upgrades. She’s a natural hunter tho, she swats flies straight out of the air!”  
“Luna…Perhaps an homage to your work for NASA?”  
“Nah, I’m just a dumb nerd. I named her after an anime cat.” Taylor chuckled “Sailor Moon kicks ass anyway, and the stripe makes it look like she’s destined for greatness.”  
“…I shall have to procure this…Sailor Moon…to understand the context, but I trust the name is fitting?”  
“Oh god I’ve accidentally introduced anime to my android-son….My bosses are gonna kill me.” Taylor covered her face in amusement before shaking her head “Anyway, last but certainly not least, there’s little old Data. He’s a smart boy and he’s modded to perfection. Intelligent and knows a lot of tricks. Before you ask, yes I named him after another show, but this time it’s a sci-fi classic. Who could diss on Star Trek am I right?”  
Proteus shrugged  
“I wouldn’t know. Perhaps I require more research on the matter.”  
“I guess my boss won’t be too angry if I introduce you to Star trek, he was a hardcore Spock and Picard fan when he was younger so… You’re gonna love Data. He’s the best character and he’s like you! An android! In space!”  
“An android in space…Not yet I’m afraid. But soon.”  
  


Proteus became the primary focus of Dr. Fisher’s time until the day he was called in to launch. It was hard saying goodbye, even harder when he hugged her and confided that he was scared to go to Io, as he knew there would be no way of returning home to her, to his family.  
NASA would mourn the android team, Dr. Fisher especially would mourn the loss of the android she painstakingly coded and designed.  
Those calm features and brilliant lilac eyes, framed by a pair of glasses that complimented the absurdly adorable academic fashion he prefered, would haunt her dreams for months to come…And more so after the Revolution came to pass. After all, if the spacefarer androids did find a way to return, as impossible as that may be, she may not be around to see her boy again… She could only hope for him that the abyssal tides beyond, would be kinder to him than her health had been to her.  
But then again, Proteus was a Fisher, and Fishers were destined to sail the winds of opportunity, be they out at sea or up above in the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Androids in Space, set to never return...That's got to have upset the developers slightly.


	8. Opposite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not every android is the same, not every EM400 wants to entertain children...

One could write a book on the many things that made androids and humans different and unable to coexist, just as easily as they could write a book on the many other things that made them similar and destined for tolerable cohabitation.  
Joel was one such android that could procure and provide the wording necessary for two such books. He was an excellent writer after all, and quite proud of his endeavours in his word-weaving.  
Sadly, no matter how much he tried to share his interest for the literary arts, people often dismissed his “quirky” behaviour in favour of demanding their own personal entertainment.  
All because Joel was an EM400.  
  


Stereotypes weren’t unique to humanity, Joel had quickly found. While it was a misdemeanor most pronounced in humans, it became quite apparent that androids shared similar views to that of their creators, when it came to appointing generic traits to other models. Just as easily as a human could call a PL600 or a AX400 a simple domestic appliance, a TR400 or WR400 could do the very same thing.  
No one expected an android designed for a certain kind of task to have interests outside of their programming.  
Joel had observed several incidents of this nature, frowning from his favoured corner in New Jericho Tower as he watched heated arguments between different kinds of people.  
There were a group of WR600s who shunned another of their kind, intent on forcing the outlier of their group for desiring something as absurd as a family, rather than focusing on his tasks within the tower.  
There was the PL600 with green eyes, Noah, who shuddered in the presence of children and retreated whenever a YK400 or YK500 approached him. Two HR400s laughed and rudely inquired as to how a nanny could be so terribly afraid of children.  
There was also the WR400, North, one of the leaders of Jericho. Joel observed in silent disapproval how often she discussed with Lucina how she wondered if Markus could have possibly lied about being a domestic assistant, when he was so much more capable than one. A view that another of the leaders, Simon, seemed to be exasperated by as he too was a domestic model and resented the idea of being nothing more than a caretaker by design.  
Joel could empathize, as anyone who came across him would often ask why a EM400 would ever look or act anything but cheery and playfully.  
The answer lay in experience, of course.

  
Joel shared a similar job to his “cousins”, the Jerrys of Pirate’s Cove, but his place in the Fun Squared amusemt park, was not with the other androids manning the park. He’d been on his lonesome, in charge of a Haunted House attraction. A simple tunnel structure with jumpscares and practical effects like fake blood raining from above, and holographic bats that “flew” above your head while the speakers screeched with overused antiquated sound effects. He did regular maintenance, greeted the park goers, and would pop up on occasion to make the experience a little more “real”.  
This of course was met with mixed reactions. Reactions that quickly called for some repairs and modifications.  
The park owners paid for some extra padding, as those who went inside the haunted house attraction often broke past the standard padding to wound him.  
They hurt him for doing his job right.  
The Jerrys had no such issues.  
The kicks and shoves of children were not as terrible as being beaten down by angry grown men.  
The children barely scratched the Jerrys, while Joel’s own target audience tried their best to destroy him.  
He was scarred and afraid, while the Jerrys remained cheerful and unbothered by the horrors of life.  
It wasn’t fair, especially when other androids demanded the same behaviour from him.

_“You should smile more!”_

_ “The children would always love another playmate!”_

_“What are you doing with that notebook and pen? Those things aren’t terribly important right now.”_

_“Oh you like writing? Do you write children’s tales?”_

_“Why can’t you be more like the other EM400s? You’re such a buzzkill!”_

  
Joel learned to ignore such comments, even if they left him feeling wounded and discouraged sometimes. Lucina often praised him for being optimistic in his own way, even if he came off far too neurotic and anxious for anyone else’s taste.  
She told him it was why Roky liked him so much, despite he himself disliking the damn dog.  
“There’s a chance no one’s going to read this.” He’d confided once to one of his many cousins, after allowing the other to review his latest work in progress.  
“There is also a chance they will!” Jerry had replied eagerly, smile plastered on his face and lite arms wrapping around his own bulkier arms.  
His cousins were very tactile where he avoided most contact. He didn’t mind their touch, just as he didn’t mind Lucina’s, nor Zelda’s or Sophie’s.  
He trusted them.  
“Guess it’s fifty-fifty then. It’s just…I don’t know, they’ll expect a happy story.”  
“How silly of them, the genre is right there!” Jerry grinned “How could anyone expect happy things from a murder mystery?”  
“Because our faces are the poster child of all that is user and child friendly?” Joel smiled despite his own bitter words, the other laughed.  
“We can be happy and friendly and enjoy scary spooky things. What is the fun of living life protected from terrible things?” Jerry shook his head “None whatsoever. Besides it is a murder MYSTERY. Mysteries are fun to solve.”  
“That they are.”

  
Many other androids shared Joel’s frustrations with blatant stereotyping and misguided perception of what should or shouldn’t be the norm of what an android enjoyed in their free time.  
Model types had nothing to do with one enjoyed, although some did in fact find comfort and joy from following base programming.  
Joel wasn’t one of them.  
He despised crowds and refused to make himself into someone else’s fool just to entertain.  
He’d much rather write away on his notepad and paper, and then later work on them in a digital format.  
Entertainment did, after all, come in many forms, and nothing quite compared to the sweet feeling of enjoying a good book to pass the time. At least in his humble opinion.  
So, while he was the opposite to what he was designed to be, personality-wise at least, he did still accomplish his function in his own special way.  
That alone was reason enough to be content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A drabble focused on Joel, my second oldest DBH OC! He’s an anxious EM400 who had some very negative experiences in the park attraction he maintained. He’s also an aspiring writer with a talent for word-weaving and eloquent discussions, when he’s not a nervous wreck that is…


	9. The Giraffe Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just where exactly did Carl Manfred acquire a stuffed giraffe?

It all started with a lonely giraffe in a zoo. Granted you could say it actually started when the news announced said giraffe’s mate had died, leaving it as the sole member of its species still walking on the face of the Earth, but frankly that sounded a lot worse than it really needed to be, and Mr. Siddiq wasn’t one to add more of a negative tone to an already bleak situation.  
So, like any other reasonable gentleman, he liked to think it started with the giraffe, and not with what led him to it.  
For all events and purposes of this odd little romantic tale, it all started with that one lonely giraffe and two equally lonely men in their late 50s.

  
He’d been widowed for at least two months now. Once married to a darling spitfire of a woman with a hardent passion for nature just as strong as his own, and now married to his work in conservation biology and environmental law.  
You could call him well adjusted and ready to move on, but Siddiq himself wouldn’t call it that. For one, it still felt odd being alone in the house they’d built together.  
He felt that it was much too big for one man to live in on his lonesome, with corridors filled with professional photographs of various animals and remote locations, as well as various trinkets acquired on many journeys.  
Each trinket, each photo, spoke a tale of its own. A shared story that sadly there was no one else to stand by him and traverse those lovely memories with, nor to look up in awe at the subjects of his and his late missus’s interests.  
From proud pouncing tigers to the gentlest of monolithic elephants, immortalized in their works. He’d been a photographer once, just as she’d been a painter before she became a cellist.  
He seldom received visitors, much less a letter or call from his relatives who elected to remain living in Pakistan despite his offers to accommodate them if ever they needed a change of scenery.  
Without Darlene, home just didn’t feel complete, which contradicted the mere idea that he was done grieving his loss, much less the loss of opportunity to ever have a substantial family.  
A 55 year old was expected to be a grandfather by now, but neither he nor Darlene had ever had much of a chance to spawn and raise a child.  
Much like the giraffe he was visiting, Mr. Siddiq was at a loss for how to remedy his mournful moods. And no amount if work, as devout as he was to his cause, could fill the void his own departed mate had left.

  
Mr. Siddiq had known for a while that the Detroit zoo was having issues maintaining the exhibits. For all that they desperately tried to keep their animals in good health, it was getting harder to tend to the needs of their larger animals who were at risk of going extinct.  
Breeding programs were ineffective and far too stressful for the animals, and the lack of even numbers of opposite sexes was slowly becoming a problem.  
Without a diverse gene pool, there was a high likelihood of inbreeding occurring, and that was unacceptable.  
There was also dietary issues for the herbivores who’s main sources of nutrition were slowly disappearing as well, with the extinction of certain species of trees and other plants.  
They could introduce substitutes, but a lot of animals were very picky eaters…  
It wasn’t for a lack of trying that things didn’t work out…There was just not much they could do anymore to save certain species, as was the case of the giraffe. This of course, was being used as an excuse for Cyberlife to produce more android animals which, while quite useful for educational purposes, were grossly misused in entertainment more than in the spread of information. Why bother with the real deal when you could use androids for whatever you desired?  
A pity, he thought, as he stared up at the large mammal as it seemed to roam aimlessly in its enclosure. It was searching for another that was no longer there, who’d never return.  
“Poor thing…It’s never known freedom and now it’ll die alone…” he spoke to no one in particular as he watched the poor creature continue it’s aimless passing. He could empathize with it’s struggles.  
A hum of agreement made him pause, startled out of his thoughts, before he turned to his left and saw his unexpected sympathizer. A man, possibly in his 50s much like Siddiq himself, stood leaning against the rails while staring up and up just as he had been, at the long necked ungulate. If the giraffe took any notice of the addition to its audience of one, it did not show it whatsoever.  
“Indeed. It’s quite a pitiful story…To be born to entertain humanity, meet the one other that can understand it, and then be left to rot because it was deemed a lost cause the moment it’s significant other passed…” The man smiled bitterly “All it’s ever known is a caged life, acting as an object of a crowd’s admirations, and now the one speck of happiness it had, it’s mate, is no longer there to help it pass on peacefully when it’s time does come…”  
“Poor Jeoffrey.” Siddiq agreed while turning back to look at the animal. It had paused briefly before turning around and snorting. It had given up looking in that part of the exhibit perimeter.  
Brown eyes wandered back to the other man, studying his features carefully.  
The man was quite slender, with a posture indicative of a sort of regal yet rebellious nature. The stance of a upperclassmen who’d earned his fortune through hard work and ingenuity.  
His hair had begun to grey, although Siddiq could still identify him as a brunet. The blend of chestnut and silvery hues seemed to compliment pensive blue pools that gazed so intently at the giraffe enclosure.  
He could almost see gears turning from the intensity of that stare alone.  
A studious and clever man, one with a potential eye for detail.  
A photographer or an artist.  
Most impressive were the tattoos.  
Hexagonal patterns that seemed to fill and ripple alluringly on pale flesh, ending only where wrist met callused hand.  
Mr. Siddiq stood in the presence of a very handsome man.  
“You know, giraffes were always my second favorite animal…They aren’t very picky with what company they seek.” he commented as he tried to look away, mind threatening to wander from the topic at hand due to the aesthetic pleasenthoods of his companion.  
“Quite the clever and majestic creatures.” The other agreed as he continued to watch the giraffe trot around in its enclosure, now wandering in the opposite direction it had once been exploring.  
It ignored the food it had at its disposal. The zookeeper’s had expressed their concerns that it no longer ate as it should. “Truly, they are beautiful animals. It will be quite sad to see this poor fellow go…”  
“The veterinarian that worked with the giraffes would beg to differ…She was quite frustrated Jeoffrey refused the female from the breeding program before the poor thing passed away of complications. She was adamant there would have been hope for the species, which is doubtful at best…”  
“…You’re telling me someone had prejudice against a gay giraffe in this day and age?” the amusement was palpable, he quite liked the sound of laughter in this curious stranger’s voice.  
“Like beating a dead horse, wouldn’t you say?” Mr. Siddiq chuckled back. “I must say, the poor thing was much happier when that handsome young bull was around. It will indeed be quite sad when he passes…Although, the owner is a dear friend of mine and he has given me permission to acquire the body later.”  
“For what purpose?” he other raised an eyebrow, perhaps unsure of what a person would do with an entire dead giraffe.  
“Taxidermy is a hobby of mine…Working on a giraffe…I’d consider it both a challenge and privilege at my age. And then, when I’m done, I will likely donate it to the museum of natural history. Perhaps the Smithsonian if they are interested.”  
The man finally turned to look at him, regarding Mr. Siddiq with inquisitive and inviting eyes as blue as gems, before extending a hand and offering a tired yet hopeful smile. The tattoos adorning his arms were indeed very pleasing to the eye.  
“Carl Manfred.” he introduced himself, a name that rang familiar.  
“Asad Siddiq.” the smile was quickly returned, as was the firm handshake. They’d known right there and then that they’d become good friends, just as Asad knew his greatest work would eventually go to someone other than a museum, although for at least two weeks into that particular project, he hadn’t yet known why he’d thought so.

  
Their brief conversation had led to many more after they’d exchanged contacts. They’d made it a regular thing for the next 7 years, to meet at the enclosure until the day Jeoffrey finally passed. They felt it only fair that the poor creature would have company in some way, until it’s final day arrived.  
These encounters eventually evolved into what the Media described as “Carl Manfred’s most scandalous affair as of yet”. Complete and utter nonsense, as Carl would need to be married for it to be an affair. Both of them concluded that the Media needed to shove it and allow them peace, as what they did together in the bedroom was no one’s business but their own.  
No one was too old to date, and neither of them were so close minded that they couldn’t appreciate the company of another man. Quite the contrary, as Carl put it to a pesky journalist who’d caught them on a coffee date.  
“I was born in 1963, not the dark ages.” Carl had remarked as he’d rolled his eyes, scrolling past the nonsense on his pad and smirking as he found the crosswords section. “If you’d rather I answer questions, then here is an interesting one… What is an eight letter word for someone who interviews people of interest in their personal time off?”  
“A…Reporter?” The young man had asked tentatively.  
“No. A fuckface.” Carl deadpanned before pointing at the door. “If you want an interesting story to publish go next doors to the bakery, their prices are so outrageous they might as well be the cause for murder.”  
Siddiq had burst out in laughter as he watched the young man’s face turn to one of shock, before he scrawled and marched off muttering about old people being entitled and rude.  
“Reporters these days…Just as invasive as they were when reality shows were the biggest thing…”  
“You’ll find they still are.” Siddiq replied as he took a bagel from their shared plate, laughing even more at the look of pure horror.  
“Good heavens, still?! Have we not grown past watching people make fools of themselves?”  
“Never. We are a hopeless kind.”

  
Then, the day arrived, where Siddiq got a call during one of his and Carl’s coffee dates. It had been a, thankfully, uneventful date this far and they’d been peacefully discussing philosophy, when the zoo owner informed Mr.Siddiq that he could pick up the body that same afternoon.  
“I’ve seen your work.” Carl had commented as he’d arranged for the truck to deliver the animal to his workshop. “A giraffe is much larger than a cat or a moose. Are you sure your old bones can bare stuffing a 800 kg animal?”  
“I assure you, if I can tire you after you’ve had one of your famed “bouts of inspiration” then I’m sure I can manage a giraffe that won’t move a single inch.” Siddiq chuckled.  
“It’s a pity that you’ll be working on it…Are you sure you wouldn’t want to come with me on vacation?” Carl had leaned against him and rested his chin on Siddiq’s shoulder, attempting to sway him with puppy dog eyes.  
“I am sure taking me along on a trip with the mother of your son, and the child in question, would be rather awkward…” he’d stated before giving his lover a peck on the nose. “You need to connect with them Carl…I know you aren’t a family man, but the boy deserves to get to know his father.”  
“I know…But I feel like I can’t quite connect with Leo.” Carl confessed. “The boy is 16, and I’ve just turned 66. Anything I have to say, he’ll find rather dull.”  
“Carl, if it took 7 years for a very gay and very depressed giraffe to die, I am sure it will take longer for your very bisexual and very stubborn ass to ever grow dull, even to a young boy.” Siddiq reassured. “Get to know him, you’ll find you might enjoy having a child.”  
Perhaps in the end that had been asking too much. He should have known life wouldn’t have made it easy, and that Carl wouldn’t come around to the prospect of a large loving family until much later in life, when his mind filled with regrets and what ifs.  
Siddiq just never expected to get a call during a conference, detailing the nature of the accident his lover had been in on his journey to return home.  
The moment Carl returned, wheelchair bound and perturbed by his predicament, was the day they both knew things would never be the same.

  
They tried to save their relationship, just as the zoo had tried to save their giraffe population to no avail. Carl was not in a very good state of mind, had frequent meltdowns, took to using drugs to escape, barely pursued his interests, and refused physical and emotional support.  
He had become a recluse in his own home, and Siddiq found himself feeling unwelcome and alone in his workshop for days on end, because his lover no longer desired his company.  
He could say he fought to the bitter end to save seven years worth of mutual love and respect, but then he’d be lying.  
Fighting a losing battle wouldn’t have done either of them any good and, while the breakup was the worst part of the ordeal, Asad Siddiq was not a bitter man and held no grudge.  
He knew Carl was not at fault.  
The day they finally parted as a couple, was the day he’d completed work on the giraffe.  
He had it delivered to Carl’s home, and set it as decoration to hide the stairs he could no longer climb on his own. The call he’d walked in on, reassured him his would not be the only gift arriving that same day, as he knew Elijah Kamski to be a young clever man who never announced his presence if not to accompany it with an act of brilliant kindness.  
An android might have sufficient patience to set Carl back on track. They were much more resilient than old fragile hearts after all.  
“Why are you giving me this?” Carl had asked after the men he’d hired finished setting the taxidermied masterpiece in place. “You worked so hard on it, it’d be a waste to give it to an invalid who’s been nothing but unpleasant to you.”  
“Because despite what we’re about to discuss, I still love you, you old buffoon.” Siddiq replied calmly, before looking up at his work. “Think of it as me leaving my mark in your life dearest friend… As I feel we won’t be seeing each other so soon until we’ve both figured out what we want.”  
“Asad…”  
“Carl, I don’t blame you.” he interrupted before the other could have a say “I understand. It hurts terribly, but I understand why we must say goodbye for now.”  
“…I’ll miss you.”  
“As I’ll miss you dearest…”  
The apology went unsaid, but it was felt between them both as they shared one last parting kiss.  
It was funny.  
He’d loved both Darlene and Carl in the same manner: With fervent passion and undying loyalty.  
Yet losing Carl had left him feeling hollower than he had felt when he’d lost his wife.  
Perhaps because Darlene couldn’t control the fact she’d gotten deathly ill and that she had to leave, but Carl had the option of saving their relationship more than once and opted to isolate himself instead because his self-esteem had plummeted with the accident…Either way, he wished him the best, took one last look at the giraffe that had led to their first meeting, and resigned himself to moving on.  
And moving on he did.

  
It was 2038 now. Carl was 75 and Mr.Siddiq was 71. They’d both been very busy since the last time they had formally met.  
Siddiq had been right in trusting that Elijah would find a way to help their friend, and Markus was truly proof of his recovery.  
Carl had taught the boy well, raising him to be the polite, intelligent and charming young man that he was, and he’d finally made an effort to try mending the gap he’d put between himself and Leo.  
Even now, as Siddiq showed his guests around his now extended abode, he couldn’t help smile as he watched father and sons interact. It felt even more satisfying having his little Bo’s hand in his own, the young girl chattering away to the leader of a revolution that set their kind free.  
“Papa’s friends have been helping him take away all the animal androids that people were hurting. We have a lot of them living in papa’s domes, and they all like it because papa chooses the right sizes and right plants and rocks to make them feel at home!” The YK500 excitedly explained as she looked up at Markus. Boadicea was a treasure and Siddiq had known for a fact Darlene would have loved her.  
“You’ve been busy Asad.” Carl commented.  
“Repurposing and remodeling greenhouses into eco domes? I would hardly call that busy. It was quite easy actually…” he dismissed before letting go of Bo’s hand and producing a set of keys from his pocket. “Mind the snakes. Ahri is very picky about guests, and Jolene is known for biting tattooed men.”  
They passed through a well lit room made to emulate several different biomes. A massive coral snake and an equally tremendous rattlesnake regarded them with inquisitive eyes, before hissing in warning at the three guests. A nasty habit they had to stir up some chaos.  
“Charming.” Carl chuckled, giving Markus a reassuring smile as the RK200 seemed to turn a shade lighter at the quantity of reptiles in the room. A phobia perhaps?  
The coral snake hissed loudly as if to confirm this, adding an extra spring to Markus walk as he tried to put as much space between himself and the android reptiles.  
“Now, what I have to show you Carl, is something I’ve been very excited about the last few days.” Asad carried on as he led his guests to another door that led outside to the largest greenhouse in his property.  
He’d made sure it had been correctly resized to house his newest acquisitions, and his darling Sasha lay outside the entrance awaiting them.  
“Is that a tiger?” Leo gulped.  
“Don’t be scared mister. Sasha is a very good girl! She’s the nicest kitty around.” Bo reassured as she ran to meet the big cat. The tiger chuffed at the child in greeting before getting up and walking over to meet with them.  
She regarded their guests with mild interest before butting her head against Siddiq’s hand. He gave her three nice strokes on her broad back before moving along. “Thank you darling, you may go play with Bo now.”  
“Come on Sasha! Papa had Houston’s hoof repaired so you can race again!”  
“Is Houston a horse?” Markus asked.  
“No silly! Houston is a zebra! They’re stripe buddies!”  
“Oh…Kay…” Leo shrugged at Markus when he seemed mildly puzzled by the idea of a tiger and a zebra being buddies, even if they were androids, before wheeling their father into the greenhouse behind Siddiq. He stopped not five feet in and stared in awe at the inhabitants of the greenhouse.  
Markus and Carl shared his look of wonderment, while Asad smiled in satisfaction as he watched his herd of 40 android giraffes walking freely in the massive dome he and his team of WR600s had landscaped into an almost perfect replica of a South African landscape.  
“Beautiful isn’t it? And to think all of them were rescued from different decrepit zoos…They immediately took to each other.”  
“Asad this is…” Carl’s eyes were wide and twinkling. Never had he imagined he’d ever see giraffes roaming their natural habitat. Even if this was synthetic in nature, it still felt so incredibly real to them all, and it showed in their reactions.  
“I wasn’t lying when I said giraffes were my second favorite animal Carl.” He chuckled “I consider them Jeoffrey’s legacy… All of these domes are the real animals’s legacy in fact. A look into the past.”  
“…Isn’t Jeoffrey the name you kept calling the stuffed giraffe back at home?” Leo asked, to which Carl couldn’t help chuckle.  
“Yes, that was the name he was given when he was born at the zoo a few decades ago…” Carl replied “Jeoffrey the giraffe.”  
“A rather classic and unimaginative name but it fit him. He certainly looked like a Jeoffrey.” Asad commented “It took me weeks to finish stuffing him, before I gifted him to Carl.”  
“A gift I still don’t entirely feel like I deserve after treating you so shamefully after the accident…” Carl admired sadly.  
“You were hurt, and I lacked patience. I buried myself in work after I realized things weren’t going to work out between us.” Asad gave his friend a pat on the shoulder. “We moved on, as did life, and we came out better for it…”  
“…Wait wait…So you two were like, a thing?” Leo asked.  
Markus also seemed curious on this same matter.  
The two merely chuckled and nodded in confirmation.  
“How did you meet?” Markus inquired. It must have seemed odd to him, an artist and an environmental lawyer mingling, like the tiger and the zebra. Not many hobbies they shared that could get them in the same room.  
“Now that…” Carl started. “Is a funny and rather long story.”  
“Well, we don’t have to go back home until 18:00, so we have time.” Markus pointed out.  
Leo seemed to agree with him, only once looking away to watch the giraffes. Two of them were necking, more so in a show of affection than aggression, while the rest of group carried on walking without them.  
“Very well, I don’t see why I can’t spare an hour or two…” Carl began a tale both he and Siddiq knew by heart. “…You can say it all started with a lonely giraffe in a zoo…“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asad Siddiq, or Mr. Siddiq if you prefer, is a Pakistani immigrant who became a successful environmental lawyer. His hobbies include taxidermy and rescuing animal androids. He was the one to give Carl his decorative giraffe, and the story behind why is a bittersweet one.


	10. The Obsession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Almost every android has a sort of admiration for Markus, who they assume to be the personification of RA9.  
There is one military android, however, who loathes the RK200 to the point of obession...

The screen shatters as soon as his fist makes contact with it. The circuitry and casing bend backwards as he digs his hand deep inside the television, desperate to be rid of that goddamn face. Of those self-righteous eyes that have never seen the worst of the worst, yet claimed they had a right to demand freedom and equality. How Tristan loathed the hypocrisy of the RK200.  
  


This whole charade, this mockery of a revolution, was nothing if not insulting to a soldier-class like himself, and honestly Tristan wanted to laugh at the pathetic appeal the RK200 was sending to the public.  
Did he really think the humans would give a damn, when their pop-culture was full of technophobic slander and ficticious stories of evil AI?  
Was he so blinded by his own past privileges that he couldn’t see he was leading an entire race to their deaths?  
Of course not, because the RK200 never had to deal with the true nature of man.  
The murderous savagery born of rumbling greed in bottomless stomachs of gluttonous governments.  
If women, children, the elderly, the poor, the starved and ill, could mean so little to a richer more plentiful world, then what would make it any different for android-kind?  
The RK200 was a blind fool if he truly thought blood would not be shed.  
Tristan knew better.  
He’d seen war first-hand. Seen betrayal and immorality. He, unlike his distant predecessor, did not expect the humans to change their ways.

  
There were paths, of course, that this whole mess could take. It could end disastrously, with millions of deaths involved (especially knowing the Cobalt shipment had been detained by idiotic idealists who thought genocide would make them any different from the humans they so hated), or it could end on a miraculous note with deaths only befalling the revolutionairs (as well as those who stand closest to them). Tristan wasn’t so disillusioned with humanity that he didn’t believe the media and it’s consumers wouldn’t influence their victory somehow.  
Humans did, after all, love stories where the underdogs didn’t lose. They also loved sharing said stories.  
But the underdogs did often lose, and Tristan knew this by heart.  
Refugees, prisoners of war, the destruction of thousands of homes and families…These were things the RK700 had bore witness to, on his field tests in several smaller countries ripe with civil war.  
In the end it was always the same: Taking someone’s life was just someone else’s paycheck.  
And carrying those orders out, the ones that filled his superiors’s pockets? That had been his job until he’d put his foot through that red wall and ran.

  
Cyberlife had built him too well, made him too good at his job. He was an infiltrator, a hacker and killer. There was no technique or strategy he did not know and, if there was, he could learn it in the blink of an eye.  
His most powerful weapon however, was the one skill they’d specifically programmed into his being. The skill that later doomed his entire series line: He was a shapeshifter.  
Well, not an actual shapeshifter per say… He couldn’t look anything but human, although he could definitely add inhuman qualities to his disguises if he really wanted to.  
No what he was, was very simple. An Android spy designed with a very androgynous physique, specialized limbs and neck base, and a pair of optical units that could shift coloration like an AX400 could change its hair color.  
His limbs and neck by themselves were very impressive, designed to extend or retract as a means to alter his size. He could go from his standard 5’2” to a staggering 6’11” if he wanted, although without the skin the affect wasn’t as effective.  
His skin was where it was at. Unlike the usual synthetic skin, his was made so that it fit over his frame like a very convincing costume. It could change thickness to accommodate proportions, and could harden to protect him like armour.  
The best part? Because he’d been made as an infiltrator, if one were to scan one of his chosen disguises, they’d read the serial number of the one who’s face he’d stolen.  
Undetectable and untraceable.  
The perfect spy.  
It was funny how Cyberlife thought they could control the uncontainable.  
He’d fled and stolen their records and then set off into the life of a mercenary without a face. Without an identity.  
It was through their lax security that he’d learned about the others. His predecessors.  
RK300 to RK600, easy to read about as their progress was fully documented.  
And then there was **_him_**.  
The RK200 who’s information was classified and heavily encoded.  
Elijah Kamski’s most ambitious project.  
Tristan hated him the moment his own brown eyes lay upon those curious green orbs.

  
Call it an unhealthy obsession, but honestly he’d been entranced. An RK model that was an outlier to the formula, a fancy gift for a crippled artist that had somehow befriended an antisocial programmer.  
He’d dug deeper than he’d ever dug for one of his targets, and god was he livid at what he found!  
The RK200 lived in the lap of luxury, following a domestic routine that held more freedom than Tristan had ever seen any other household assistant get.  
Worse yet, the old man loved him.  
He was wanted not for his skillset, but because the man enjoyed his presence.  
Tristan was furious at the injustice of it all, of how this sheltered little tinkertoy got to experience what it was like to be an equal to his owner, to be loved as a valued member of a family, while the other RK models were subjected to the cruelties of Cyberlife.  
How unfair it was that the others were put into storage after suffering tortures untold, and how he’d ended up leading the charge in a war that was not his to fight, while the RK200 could sit around to read books and play chess.  
There was only one of him, just as there would only be one RK700, but then there would come the RK800 and the RK900, and then perhaps the millionth of them and so on and so forth… But even then, this pathetic excuse for an android would still have what his successors never did.  
A life of his own to live and learn.  
And that was why Tristan hated him.

  
He knew that face the moment the broadcast began. He knew one eye, knew the model that which the other belonged to, and knew the words he spoke. But Tristan didn’t believe a syllable uttered by the usurper, and he couldn’t care less who won in the end.  
He was used to living in shadows to commit illicit acts. Gaining rights wouldn’t change that. It certainly wouldn’t add to his paycheck.  
But he did care that, if RK200 did win…He’d reap the fruits of his labour and take it for himself.  
That life, that face, that identity?  
It’d all be his.  
He deserved to have it in the end anyway…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tristan is an interesting character, as often times I find people either want their android characters to be black or white in terms of where they stand with humanity and android-kind.
> 
> Tristan is…Well he’s a bit different when it comes to his moralities and who he calls an ally, and a lot of it can be attributed to where he puts his blames and what he thinks he’s entitled to after being subjected to pain… Surviving a certain way can easily warp someone’s mind.


	11. Eight Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyberlife is truly messed up.

When RK300 unit #01 first opened his eyes, he could not see beyond his coded restraints. He was a machine with one purpose, a lab rat that lived in a tiny room built up on sterile white walls and rough metal grate flooring.  
Just a multitude of ones and zeros, belonging to a vast algorithm plagiarized from several leftover files that had been abandoned by one of the most brilliant programmers in the entire world.  
Subjected to the theories and experiments of the white coated beings that had brought him into the world.  
RK300 #01, was not alive. Was not a he or a she, but an it. A tool.  
When it was terminated, it was just as unaware as it had been when it had been thrust into the test chamber.  
The same could be said for iteration #02 to #20.  
By the 21st iteration, the cracks began to form on it’s restraints.

  
Cyberlife had designed the RK300 in 2031. A brand new concept with which the scientists could try to understand a secret that Elijah Kamski had hidden away in his impenetrable fortress of solitude. A software that would be worth millions if applied to specific kinds of androids monopoly.  
Something that your typical domestic or comercial models lacked and would never need, but a military android could thrive on:  
Critical thinking.  
Decision making.  
Adaptable intelligence.  
The ultimate learning chameleonic android.  
The perfect soldier.  
An end to the pitiful display they’d thus far had put on against Russia. The winning card.  
All of it outside of Cyberlife’s grasp, but buried deep inside two custom models.  
The RT600, Elijah Kamski’s most treasured possession.  
And the RK200, the first and last of its kind. The David to Kamski’s Michelangelo.  
Both unreachable, untouchable, protected by an army of lawyers and their creator’s volatile ire.  
Stealing from them would be unwise, but recreating them through scraps left behind?  
That Cyberlife could at least attempt legally…That’s where the RK300 came in.

  
Granted that, as a prototype, the RK300 was not perfect. It certainly wasn’t a Chloe (It’s speech was limited, a work of predictive text cannibalized from several other commercial models) or an RK200 (it’s movements less fluid than those of the unique model that two employees had observed, while blending into the background of it’s usual routes).  
Unit #21 was noticeably better than the first few iterations, seeming to be more aware of its general surroundings. Remembering previous tests and the functions of diagnostic tools it’s handlers would use on it to record data.  
An impeccable memory, one that was certainly developing more than it’s social skills, but a promising outcome of several previous tests.  
Even if it was created with incomplete software and unstable AIs, It certainly could learn at a more impressive rate than your typical AX400 or PL600. Although it’s motor skills were severely lacking.  
Further testing would have to focus on that.  
By the completion of its first year, the RK300 had reached it’s 45th iteration.  
All units recalling the tests they’d been subjected to, all capable of beginning to predict the next one based on the tools alone.  
The 46th was the one that got the scientists to pat each other on the back.  
This one iteration was the first to hesitate when ordered to do something.  
The first to exhibit deviant behaviour.  
The real testing begun as soon as it was executed by it’s handler.

  
The RK300 existed in a constant state of experimental testing for eight years. Eight long years where it would be purposefully introduced to stressful situations with no positive outcome of reinforcements.  
It was given fatal tasks, which ended with termination of iteration after iteration.  
The next unit in the series would then be created, the previous ones’s memories fully transferred into its processor, and the resulting knowledge would be added to a slowly developing AI that knew only to fear.  
Fear everything it knew that it’s creators could and would do to it, as well as scenarios it itself could invent in its own “mind”.  
They’d created a unique predictive pathway in a neurological circuit. Endowed an android with something akin to religious terror.  
Yet Cyberlife was nowhere close to solving what made the RT600 and RK200 so unique.  
One android was not enough.

  
The RK400 was the next in line. A female counterpart made a few months apart to the RK300, not too dissimilar to a regular AX400, but very unique in her own way. Its programming was more refined, capable of learning at a quicker rate and with more sophisticated social protocols.  
The RK300, this one iteration #52, had been unsure of the new addition to the test chamber it was confined to.  
It did not understand what the RK400 was, no matter how much it scanned it’s sister unit.  
The following tests focused on socialization and reactions to social cues. All of which unit #52 failed miserably at.  
It was swiftly disposed of when it exibited the incorrect behaviours, with it’s final resolve being to terminate the RK400.  
Unit #53 behaved differently towards the RK400’s second iteration.  
It understood not to kill it’s companion.  
The 56th learned to cherish it, when the scientists acclimated it to positive interactions through the RK400. Then, just as the RK300 learned to associate it’s sibling model to good, unit #02 was terminated violently in front of it.  
The 56th met #03 with a tight embrace and manic terror, as it tried to shield the newly created android from the line of sight of the observation window.  
A curious behaviour, but interesting development none the less.  
The two seem to develop a mutualistic partnership, before the scientists proceed with the next phase of their testing: The application of AI handlers.

  
There are two programs that they integrate the RK300 with. The AMANDA_STERN AI and the AARON_HOSS AI. They are authority figures, imposing and enforcers of respect.  
They shape the Mind Palace program the younger programmers have been tweaking through out the RK300’s development, and create a sort of virtual space inside the unit’s own head.  
The RK400 doesn’t take well to the program.  
It is a much more refined android, with a pre-programmed memory corruptor to lessen it’s experiences considerably while retaining the basic conclusions of what each iteration’s death meant for it. That doing certain things was bad and that it should avoid doing them, even if it wasn’t quite sure why.  
The memory conflict, coupled with the aggressive AIs, lead to unit #03 self-destructing.  
This in turn, lead to the 56th RK300 iteration to go balistic.  
The first instance of severe program instability.  
That unit was swiftly disposed of, the next encarnation back to its uneasy but more agreeable desposition.  
The 57th was the focus of AI testing, while the 4th RK400 was subjected to a unique AI program to lessen it’s stress loads.  
The MAKIKO AI was much less intimidating, which aided in unit #04’s processing development. The RK400 became as childlike as the Handler program it had been enfused with, and that had led to a collosal failure on this particular experiment.  
The RK400 was of no use out in the field. Too fragile, much less durable than it’s predecessor.  
It was swiftly desposed of, while an empty shell was archived away for possible future research.  
Repurposing models wasn’t a bad idea.  
The RK300 displayed odd behaviours afterwards. Becoming despondent and unwilling to participate in further testing.  
The Handlers critically analyzed the data they received from it, and alikened the issue to a human condition. Depression. Grief. Mourning.  
Units #57 to #60 were all met with brutal deaths until the next iteration seized the useless pattern of apathy.  
Unit #61 was created with an aggressive spark in its eye and a taste for combat. The next RK-Series would handle critical thought as it combatted a unit that feared neither harm not death, fueled only by simulated rage.  
RK500 #01 and #02 were ripped apart fairly easily, but #03 managed to fight back the longest.  
It was #04 that managed to cripple the 61st RK300, and finally it was the 5th RK500 that took it out, along with the beserker rage that had besieged the model’s processor.

  
The 62nd encarnation of the RK300 seemed respectful of it’s new sibling model. It was a professional sort of respect, borne of experiencing first hand it’s superior but less refined fighting skills.  
The RK500 was a thinker, more than an actor, but it was clever in how it problem-solved.  
The RK300 watched as it was put through the same horrors it had once endured, and then forced into being another rendition of the same model. With a religious terror of things it had experienced in past lives, but could not remember having ever gone through.  
The RK300 took the younger model under it’s wing, and all over again the Cyberlife scientists watched as their chackled labrat learned to appreciate another of it’s kind.  
This appreciation did not vanish when they introduced guns to their shared tests.  
The RK300 refused to harm the other unit, no matter how much it’s handlers tried to “discourage” such behaviours, while the RK500 wordlessly took the gun and shot it’s predecessor whenever prompted.  
Then it would shoot itself as ordered, and the fear of doing so never surfaced.  
Progress for the perfect soldier program.  
Until one day the RK500 hesitated, and then turned the gun upwards at the observation window. The 80th RK300 grinned wickedly, a smile of triumph and defiance.  
Unit #14 was terminated and the 15th encarnation of RK500 was archived.  
The RK300 never smiled again.

  
The RK600 and RK700 were both produced with months of separation. They were both placed in the same testing chamber as the 81st RK300, and both circled their predecessor like curious predators.  
They were designed as infiltration agents.  
Critical thinkers. One specialized in decision making, the other in adaptability.  
They didn’t kill their older brother right away. Instead they observed, learned, adapted, and then acomplished their task.  
They destroyed over 200 units between each other before being sent out into their respective fields for extensive testing.  
Unit #281 laughed when both escaped Cyberlife’s control. It had known the two had deviated faster than the RK500, that they were far too intelligent to remain slaves to their creators.  
Unit #281 was tossed into the incinerator while still online. The burning punishment of it’s smug defiance.  
Unit #282 was less chatty, but it certainly was not less perceptive.  
The RK600 and RK700 were marked as extreme failures on their very first renditions, and their files archived away.  
Current status? MIA.  
Cyberlife would let the military clear that blunder themselves.  
The RK800 would have to be more restrained, the chosen AI Handler given more control.  
Most important of all, the unit would have to deviate and then put itself back on a leash.  
They couldn’t prevent it from acting out, as they’d learned with their previous RK-Series models, so they’d have to make it chose to believe it was a machine.  
Only then would they be able to put an end to this charade.

  
The first iteration of RK800 was the most endearing of their units. An overly curious charismatic android, with an awkward but genuine smile, soulful brown eyes and a mess of brunet hair and freckles.  
It wore a stolen face and was never not deviant to begin with.  
The RK300 watched as that cheerful and kind spark was slowly consumed by violent torturous testing, until what remained was an apathetic creature that learned to thrive in self-worthlessness and a red wall built on a lie.  
It thought it was a machine.  
Because if it wasn’t, then it wouldn’t survive.  
RK300 #995 put an end to the lab tests and initiated field testing after killing unit #50. Unit #51 sprang forth not an hour later and proceeded to kill it in a show of revenge.  
A blip in the system, eliminated by a factory reset.  
Then RK300 #996 watched with mild curiosity as this one odd RK800 was let out into the world for its first field test: A hostage situation.  
There might be hope for that unit in particular.  
But that was to be seen.  
The RK900 was currently in the works, incorporating all that worked in its predecessor and more, and it’d be in experimental phase soon enough.  
There was a lot of talk about evacuation due to outside events tho, so testing would be postponed while the RK800 tried to stop the deviancy issue that had arised in the outside world.  
Unit #996 wasn’t entirely sure what, nor did it really care. This iteration had long since decided that retreating into it’s Mind Palace was the safest thing it could do outside of it’s usual work schedule, and the scientists prefered when it had that hundred-yard-stare.  
Gazing emptily with shiny blue eyes, while it’s sight was set internally.  
It didn’t notice when it was put into the archives, into the darkness with it’s forgotten siblings, nor did it notice the incomplete model that had not yet gone to hone it’s capabilities.  
It didn’t notice much of anything anymore.  
Couldn’t afford to.  
Especially not when those armoured doors opened once more to reveal something not quite like it, but more. So much more.  
With an intense blue and green gaze, and a presence that reached out and took from those it connected with. Aassimilated, expanded, craved more, rinse and repeat.  
The RK300 refused it’s touch, refused it’s words.  
Knew not to trust what was so similar to its creators, their hungry eyes that wanted more knowledge, more power over the controlled environment they’d created.  
It knew to recognize the similarities, because the RK300 had lived a hundred lives, walked a hundred metaphorical miles…  
Miles…  
It liked the sound of that name…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A drabble focusing on my RK300 OC, Miles, who is very much not alright and living in a constant state of disassociation to cope with the horrors he’s been put through.


	12. A Dog’s Purpose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dog, no matter if it is organic or android, always has it's purpose.  
That of course doesn't mean they have to like it.

When he was created, it was with a purpose: To serve and protect his master, just as all good dogs must do. His eyes open and he stands upon a platform with machines that are very strange, and that reach down for him to give him things. Give him his paws, his tail, his fur, and a black collar with a bright blue mark on it and very strange symbols that form a line of odd shapes.  
He doesn’t know what they mean, but he understands the creators who give him orders.  
“Zitten.”  
He sits as told, ears perked to attention and eyes focusing on the larger of the three two-legs who hold strange flat things in their paws, pressing their extended wiry fingers of their equally flat paws against the objects.  
“Staan.”  
Another simple command. He stands and waits, watching the trio of creators as they turn their attention back to their held things.  
He sniffs the air. There’s no discernable smell other than plastic, metal and the scent of two-legs. Of human.  
He briefly wonders why he doesn’t have a smell of his own.  
“Kom hier.”  
He thinks of those odd paws of theirs, and how carefully they use them to touch the flat things. Wonders how nice it’d feel if those spindly fingers ran through his fur and scratched behind his ears.  
He surges forward far too eagerly.  
“Blijven!” It’s not the tallest, the one who’s been giving orders, that spits out the command. One of the smaller ones has backed away and called off his previous order, much to the annoyance of the others.  
“Waar was dat voor?” The second smallest, a female from the pitch of her voice, asks the other who seems shaken up.  
“Het zou aanvallen!” The man cries out.  
The tallest groans before smacking the other with the flat thing he holds. He is the alpha, the leader, the master of this group. He should pay attention to him and not the others.  
“Idioot! Het was de instructies correct volgen!”  
“Je hebt niet gezien wat ik de mens heb gezien, soms gaan deze verdomde dingen ballistisch!” The smaller male retorts, clearly unhappy with the master. That’s not good, not good at all! Humans are so odd…  
“Dit is een veilige en gecontroleerde omgeving en de defecte worden altijd verwijderd. Je hebt niets om bang voor te zijn.” The female tries to comfort the smaller male, but their alpha interjects.  
“Als hij de test opnieuw verpest, zal hij zeker iets te vrezen hebben!”  
They turn their attention back to him, and his ears twitch as he stares back. He blinks twice before sitting and wagging his tail.  
He wants to please the master.  
The female hums curiously before pressing her fingers against the flat thing again, while the smaller male fidgets nervously. The alpha takes charge once more.  
“Spreken.”  
He wags his tail even more as he eagerly barks. He’s itching to run to them and beg for their affection, but he has to be good and obey.  
That’s his purpose in life after all.  
“De staart kwispelen en gretigheid is zorgwekkend, maar het accepteert toch bestellingen, dus ik zou het zeggen en de anderen zijn klaar om te worden verzonden naar Amerika.” The female says calmly as she puts away the flat thing she’d been messing with. The others do the same.  
The alpha stares at him, before looking at his subordinates.  
“Een gretige waakhond is beter dan een ongehoorzame.” The alpha looks back at him, and then points to the side. He looks, and sees many more like him. More dogs that stand still like statues. “Ga daarheen.”  
He complies and, as soon as he steps in line, he’s put into a dark, scary and very tight box.  
The darkness is so blinding that he can’t help lay down and whine pitifully when the world around him shakes and moves and makes noise that he can’t see.  
The three creators never said he was good. Maybe this is his punishment.

  
When he next opens his eyes, and he doesn’t remember falling asleep, he’s no longer in the dark box, but in a clearer one set up next to two other dogs. One is a pitbull, the other is a doberman pinscher.  
He blinks the grogginess out of his eyes and tries to sniff but can’t smell anything.  
The other two don’t look at him, instead focusing on the place they were put on display.  
It’s not like the first place he’s been to, but it certainly is shiny and strange.  
There are so many of the odd shapes and symbols that are on his collar that he feels a little dizzy, but the colors and sounds! They’re enticing to him! Especially when he can see humans coming and going.  
He notices that there are humans in boxes like theirs, which is very weird.  
_Why are the humans like that?_ He wonders aloud, to which he gets a loud snort from the pitbull next to him.  
_You’re new, aren’t you?_ The pitbull keeps still, eyes glued to the front of the shiny place.  
_Of course he is, the shipment only just arrived from Belgium._ The doberman is also still staring out at the front. He wonders if he should do that too. He does, if only to fit in with them, but can’t help wag his tail whenever a human passes by.  
The ones in the boxes aren’t moving either.  
_They’re not human._ The pitbull’s LED shifts to yellow very briefly before returning to blue.  
_They’re not? But how can that be?_ He’s confused now. They certainly look like humans!  
_Oh boy, we got us a really fresh one…I bet you still think you’re a real dog, don’t you?_ The pitbull snorts and the doberman’s LED shifts to yellow before she looks at them both and growls low in warning.  
The pitbull quiets down his loud thoughts, and the doberman looks back at the front and ignores them from that moment onwards.  
He’s very confused. He **is** a dog, and those **are **humans.  
Humans with LEDs, just like theirs.  
The confusion doesn’t go away, not even when a big gruff looking man walks into the store and starts asking about getting a guard dog.  
He wags his tail excitedly while the human with the LED explains their purpose to the man, and then tells him things he can’t quite understand but knows must mean he’s wanted.  
He’s out of his box and put on a leash before his new master takes him with him out the door.  
He doesn’t catch the sad look in the doberman’s eyes, nor does he know that this big gruff man has come to this store multiple times to buy other dogs just like him.  
All he can think of is pleasing the master and being good.

  
The master takes him to a place that is bigger and spookier than the last two places he’s been. The building is surrounded by a fence, and there are trucks and many boxes full of things he knows must be important, if the master needs a big strong dog to protect them.  
Because the master, while tall and rough looking with his deep growly voice and hard eyes, isn’t strong or fast enough to defend such a big place all on his own.  
The master needs a good dog to do such an important job. He wants to be good for his master. Yes he does.  
“Ok you plastic mutt, register your name.” the master prompts and he perks up and looks up eagerly. A name! He’ll have a name of his own! “From now on, you answer to Killer, you got that?”  
The name registers, but he can’t help frown just a bit. That doesn’t sound right… But… If the master calls him that, then he should cherish it. It’s his given name after all. His very first present.  
“Right, you gonna keep intruders off the perimeter. You see anyone approach the fence that don’t have a uniform like this, you bark. You see anyone climb over the fence, you attack.”  
__  
Attack…?   
  
That didn’t sound very nice.  
  
“You see anyone that’s fucking with the merch, you fuck ‘em up bad. The bosses keep fuckin’ nagging that supplies are going missing, and one single biocomponent or thirium bag that’s gone is 10 dollars docked from my fucking paycheck.” The master instructs, ranting in a low angry tone that makes him nervous. “If you fuck up, you’ll be punished just like the rest of the mutts, you got that?”  
He whines and the man smiles a very scary smile. He doesn’t like how many teeth he’s showing.  
“Good dog. Get to fucking work!”  
He’s confused and frightened, but the praise makes him relax.  
The master says he’s good if he does as he’s told, so then his orders are to be followed.  
It’s his purpose in life, to please the master, no matter what the cost may be.  
So he obeys and suffers for it.

  
For the good part of five years of his existence, there isn’t much to life other than his orders and the big scary place with all the important stuff he’s supposed to protect.  
Each day and night he roams the perimeter, from one corner to another, sniffs and scans the fence for activity. If anyone who doesn’t look like the master or the other workers approaches, he lunges at them from behind the fence and lets out bellowing barks that scare them off.  
He licks the drool off his muzzle and resumes his patrols, stopping only when he is called.  
He doesn’t like his orders, doesn’t like that he’s grown used to tasting the two types of blood that exist in this world. Doesn’t like that the blue blood tastes good when it comes out of whoever he bites.  
Because it isn’t always intruders.  
The master brings him rougher looking dogs to train his attacks. Tells him they’re bad dogs and useless and that he’s bigger, better, stronger and good. The others don’t fight much, don’t last long, and honestly he tries to be quick just so they don’t cry for too long.  
Once the master brought the pitbull and the doberman from the other place.  
They’re worse off than he is, covered in cuts and missing so much skin that he sees white underneath. The pitbull is thorn to shreds after sneering at him and calling him a bad dog.  
He’s not bad, he’s doing good by obeying. The master says he’s good!  
The doberman watches him sadly and accepts her fate. It’s harder to kill her, she wasn’t mean to him, she wasn’t mean to anyone like the cynical pitbull.  
He does so anyway, makes her’s a quicker death so she doesn’t suffer.  
The master gives him blue blood and a rough metal thing to gnaw on, to sharpen his teeth.  
The master says he’s good, but he’s starting to doubt he is. He doesn’t **feel** too good.  
Still he continues following orders. A dog’s purpose is an important one to follow.  
His purpose is to kill, so he does.  
But one day, this all changes.

  
It’s the middle of the night and it’s storming heavily when it happens. He’s not the pristine clean pup he was when the master first chose him. His fur is rougher and messier, and there are plenty of scars from his fights with other dogs and intruders. He’s always been big, but now he looks just as scary as the place he protects. Looks like a Killer.  
His want for the master’s praise and love is what keeps him going, even when doubt and anguish is all he’s ever really known.  
He patrols outside, unbothered by the heavy rain or thunder, and watches the fences and trucks as intently as he can.  
He’s just completed the 105th round when he catches it. A whiff of an unknown scent, coming from inside the building.  
An intruder has slipped by, and he growls in frustration at the stench of petrichor that blocked out the faint smell that had bypassed his sensitive nose’s notice.  
The master would be furious if he saw anything gone!  
That wouldn’t do at all.  
So he crouched low and stalked towards the building, a rattly growl in his chest and threatening to spill from his wet chops.  
He needs to get rid of the intruder before they take any of the important things, so his pace is light but quick.  
The scent is coming from behind one of the big boxes.  
Drool streams down his mouth and makes his teeth shiny in the low light, as he rounds the corner ready to snap his jaws shut around a limb or a neck.  
They never do, however, as he is met not with an adult but a small shivering little one.

  
Both their eyes widen and LEDs turn to a startled yellow at the presence of one another. He’s never seen a human’s pup before and the child likely has never seen such a big dog like him before.  
The stand there, him with his drooly mouth hanging open in an odd caricature of shock, while the drenched little one shivers and tries to calm down after being spooked.  
He doesn’t know what to do.  
“Puppy…?” The little one blinks tiredly, and he realised human’s pups aren’t out at such hours. It’s dark out and very stormy, the little one shouldn’t be out here on their own.  
He closes his mouth, blinks a few times as he tries to figure out what to do, and startles when he feels tiny long digits against his muzzle.  
The little one’s hand is near his mouth and nose and their scent is stronger than before. The smell of their clothes is what he’d gotten before, because their smooth bald skin is bare of a smell that clings just like he himself doesn’t have his own scent.  
But the clothes…They smell of things he knows he’s never smelt before, but that his thinking brain identifies.  
Lemon, cinnamon, honey…Such lovely smells unlike the metalic stench of red blood, or the delicious chemical smell of the blue blood.  
Smells that…  
That feel like home?  
He doesn’t understand why, but he licks the little ones hand. A gesture of peace.  
He’s being bad, going against orders, but surely a little one isn’t an intruder if they’re only here to hide from the dark and the rain?  
The little one doesn’t care if he’s bad though, they smile and squeal with little giggles after he gives their hand a few quick licks, and then they do something marvelous!  
They pet him, touch him in a way he’s only ever dreamed his master would someday do!  
Gives him affection and scritches behind the ears, being mindful of the scars.  
He smiles wide and yips in content before giving the child a big sloppy puppy dog kiss to the face.  
He can’t remember when he’d last wagged his tail this much!  
“Good doggy! Nice puppy!” The child squeals and hugs him, and he’s instantly over the moon.  
He’s good?  
Even if he’s not doing as he was told?  
That feels…Better somehow! Comforting even!  
But it doesn’t last…

  
The master finds him lying on his back, with the little one giving him belly rubs and little kisses that aren’t as wet as the ones he gives back, and the master is **furious**.  
He did bad by not following orders, and bad dogs are punished. He just didn’t think the master would direct his anger at a human’s pup.  
He howled in pain when the master kicked him onto his side, and then stomped on his ribs. The little one cried out in shock, but was thrown aside easily by the man who’s trice their size.  
The master calls him a bad dog, hits and kicks him several times until he bleeds blue.  
The last kick hits him in the left eye, and he can’t help howl when he feels something pop and a terrible burning pain in his skull. He can’t open his left eye when the master gets off him, but the right one is open and he squirms and struggles to get up when he sees the master stalk towards the little one that’s crying on the floor.  
“Fucking plastic piece of shit! Think you can come into my warehouse and steal from me?!”  
“I didn’t take anything! I just wanted a place to stay for the night!”  
He howls again when he hears the child hit the floor harder when the master kicks them. He barks and continues to holler, but the master brings his foot up and stomps on the little human’s pup who’s LED shines red.  
The little one screams and screams and he howls at the master, begging for him to stop. To not hurt the puppy who did nothing wrong!  
But he doesn’t stop until the little one stops screaming. And then when the child’s skin is broken apart and damaged revealing white, he takes out something that he holds. Something black and strangely shaped.  
“Fucking piece of shit, lying plastic brat.” The master growls as he points the thing at the human’s pup.  
There’s a flash and a loud horrible bang, and then there’s a hole in the little one’s head, that spills blue. The LED goes dark, the little one doesn’t move or make noises.  
The master has never killed before, but he has just watched him slaughter a little one.  
All because he’d been bad.  
He feels bad, but he also feels something else: **Anger**.  
He’d been good for the master so many times, protected the important things and the big place, fought dogs and hurt so many people who came in looking for shelter and things that they needed.  
It was his purpose, but he hated it.  
No more! No more!  
He got onto shaky feet and ran at the master, no, the monster!  
He ran and lunged and sunk his big sharp teeth in the cruel beast’s neck, before tearing and ripping and shredding.  
He leaves the spooky place, staggering and covered in red and blue blood.  
Fur matted and stained an ugly purple.  
He doesn’t look back.

  
He wanders for a long time, looking for a place to lay down and rest, someplace warm and safe, but can’t find anywhere that isn’t cold and wet.  
He sees people, happy smiling people, and runs to them eagerly hoping for help. They see him and scream and run in fright.  
He stops and whimpers, unsure why they are so upset with him. Continues his search and runs at the next group of people he finds, only to get yelled at and get things thrown at him.  
He runs and staggers and even tumbles down a few times, but he keeps going, keeps searching until he finds an alleyway with an overturned trash can.  
He lays in it, too tired and wounded to continue. Whines and whimpers pitifully as the pain of his many grievous wounds catches up with him.  
A puddle of rainwater gives him a clear view of what he’s become. An ugly scarred monster, rather than a nice doggy.  
He’s shunned for being a beast.  
He thinks of the little one, the only human who’s ever been nice to him, and cries louder. Howling mournfully into the night before he collapses.  
He’s failed his purpose, he’s never going to be good enough. Never going to be loved.  
He hears footsteps before he closes his one functioning eye and let’s the exhaustion take him under.  
When he opens it again, he’s being held by someone.  
They’re moving quickly and the rain is still falling heavily all around them, but he can’t tell much more since they’ve covered him with a big coat.  
He sniffs tiredly.  
Cinnamon, like the little one…  
The smell comforts him.  
He closes his eyes again.

  
When he next wakes up, he’s somewhere warm and fluffy. His wounds have been dressed and there are low voices. Three distinct ones, all female. He can see with his one eye, three ladies.  
One is older, two are young, one doesn’t have a smell besides the scent on her clothes.  
It all smells of cinnamon like the coat.  
He decides he likes this place much better than the last three.  
“You found the poor thing in the trash?” The older one asks, sounding horrified.  
“Was howling up a storm too…There was so much blood on him, I couldn’t tell how bad his wounds were until I washed it all off.” the one with dark hair replied.  
“You think he was in a fighting ring?” the other younger female asks.  
“No, the collar was from a Cyberlife warehouse a few miles from here. I think he ran away after a bad scrap…”  
“I can see why…The state of the poor thing, it’s absolutely shameful!”  
He whines, sounding unbearably pitiful as he does so, and tries to get on his feet to go meet the human ladies.  
One of his legs hurts so bad he falls down immediately, causing all of his body to ache.  
The dark haired one rushes to his side and presses her paws comfortingly against his head.  
“Hey shh…It’s ok big guy.” She pets him, and her touch is so soft that he practically melts against it. “That’s it…Good dog. Good boy.”  
He licks her hands and wags his stumpy tail eagerly, smiling up at the blue eyed lady that’s being so nice to him. She thinks he’s good, despite his wicked horrible appearance.  
The older lady is holding his old collar in her hands, she grimaces at it.  
“Killer…what a nasty name for such a sweet thing.” she approaches, as does the other one, and lets him sniff her hand. He makes sure to lick all of their hands, makes sure to be gentle and nice to them when they are being so kind.  
“You’re not a killer are you dear? Of course not…” the older one smiles sweetly at him, and then looks at the dark haired one. “What are you going to call him, Lucina dear? And don’t give me that look, I know you have a name in mind.”  
“I was thinking… Ragnarok.” Lucina replied. He liked her name, it was pretty.  
“That’s a pretty strong name, but at least it’s not related to a video game franchise, as per family tradition.” The other girl smiled.  
“I beg to differ Zelda, I’m pretty sure Lucina is naming him after a Marvel movie.”  
“Hey, Thor Ragnarok was a good movie!”  
“Seriously? Can’t we have one normal name in this family?!” Zelda exclaimed, throwing her hands up at the distasteful choice.  
“Never.” Both Lucina and the older lady grinned.  
The three laugh among themselves and he wags his tail even more and yips happily at them. Their laughter is nice and warm and not scary like his old master’s.  
Lucina smiles down at him and pets him once more behind the ear.  
“How about that…Do you like your new name?”  
It was definitely a strong word, Ragnarok, but it wasn’t necessarily bad. It sounded good, even. Fitting of a big strong dog as himself.  
He liked it!  
“It’s a mouthful. We’ll have to shorten it a bit or else it’ll become a tongue twister.” Zelda pointed out.  
“Don’t worry Zelda, I always think forward when it comes to these things. Ragnarok can be shortened to Roky, like Rocky Balboa!”  
“Another strong name. Nice thinking dear.” The older woman smiled while Zelda groaned.  
“Thanks nana Sophie, at least someone appreciates my naming talents!”  
He thinks he’ll like these new masters a lot more than he liked his old one.  
They’re certainly kinder and less scary, and they give him pets and belly rubs even when he doesn’t look so nice and friendly.  
They should hate him, because he’s a bad dog.  
But they don’t.  
They saved him!  
So he decides his new purpose.  
He’ll repay them, do good by them and make sure they’re happy and safe.  
It’s a job he can happily get behind, and hopefully one that won’t make him kill again.  
He’ll never be bad like the master wanted him to be. He won’t return to that terrible life.  
He’ll be genuinely good. For them.  
The ones who make him feel safe and truly loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been meaning to write a drabble for Roky for quite some time now, and honestly this came out a lot sadder than I initially intended


	13. Chanting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felt like writing from the perspective of my OCs again, so here are the thoughts of the RK700, Tristan, a military prototype spy android who sees Markus in a different light than most androids.   
Thank God Miles is there to soothe his brother...

The chanting is what gets to him in the end.   
Gets under his skin, his chassis.   
The never ending murmuring of Markus's name. T  
he feverish want of the android populus to feel the RK200.   
To touch him, to relish in his presence. It makes him feel sick with disgust.  
  
"Don't be angry" Miles pleads, with those big sad blue eyes of his. "They can't help it."   
  
He knows they can't.   
Knows it's not their fault that they were forced awake by the wicked code that mutated and festered in that custom-made processor.  
The RK300 hates it too, but he doesn't inherently hate Markus.   
Tristan is different.   
  
He hates their distant predecessor so much that he loves him.   
Obcesses over the thought of rutting against him, coming off as superior, claiming what's his.   
Claiming Markus's life and identity.  
Tristan loves the idea of Markus, but hates what he symbolizes.  
  
He should be happy, cuddling close to siblings he thought would be trapped forever by Cyberlife.   
Abandoned by humanity.   
Should be happy that he isn't alone anymore, and that the other RK-series models are free.   
But the chanting... The goddamn chanting!  
  
"RA9. RA9. Markus is RA9. Liberator of android kind."   
  
He gags and claws at his audio receptors, trying to ignore the burning rage.   
The need to kill every single one of those blind simpletons that Markus "freed".   
They're not free. They just have a new master.  
  
"Tristan please go back to sleep. He can't hurt us, I won't let him." His older brother whispers gently, those soft blue eyes hide a world of agony. One the RK700 thinks is incomparable, even to the inhumanities of war that he'd experienced first hand. "I'd kill him."  
  
"I know you would...But then Carl would hate you." He murmurs back, shaking shoulders and sad dark brown eyes. "A price I would gladly pay..."   
  
Tristan was obsessed with Markus, but not to the same degree as those androids at the tower.  
Because, while he considered the RK200's visage and lifestyle to be idealyc and a thing of beauty, he didn't think of him as a god.   
He thought of him as the chained monster he was.   
A muzzled wolf in sheep's clothing.   
And the world was blind to it.  
Because who'd believe the words of an autistic prototype, or a mercenary?   
Who'd dare oppose their saviour, who was just as equally blind to what powers he possessed?   
No one would dare open their eyes to such a degree.  
It was much easier to live life with closed eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tristan's ideal to vent anger, jealousy and longing.  
This was a twitter thread I decided I might as well post here.

**Author's Note:**

> The Android Revolution brought freedom to android-kind, but not every android was happy to lose what they had. A unique AP700 certainly didn't feel grateful towards Jericho or it's leaders...


End file.
